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II 

i 

THE 

BEAUTIES 

/ 

or  THB 

BRITISH    POETS, 

WITH   A    TEW 

INTRODUCTORY  OBSERVATIONS 

JJj>  tf>c  3&eb.  ©fcotfld  dttelj. 

BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON,    &    CO., 

110  Washington  Street. 

1852. 

Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/beautiesofbritisOOcroliala 


INTRODUCTORY  OBSERVATIONS. 


English  poetry  constitutes  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
portions  of  the  intellectual  history  of  Modern  Europe. 
The  era  of  English  Poetry  commences  with  the  Norman 
Invasion.  Anglo-Saxon  Poems  had  existed ;  but  their 
topics,  their  rudeness,  or  the  decay  of  the  language, 
extinguished  them  in  the  presence  of  a  superior  dialect 
and  a  more  fortunate  time.  The  few  that  remain,  are 
merely  memorials  of  some  barbarian  event,  or  harsh 
attempts  to  throw  some  superstitious  fable  into  metre. 
The  violence  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  that  shook  the 
laws  and  institutions  of  England,  also  shook  the 
language.  But  here  the  violence  was  more  than 
compensated  by  the  novelty,  richness,  and  vigour 
of  the  results.  The  poetical  soil  was  ploughed  roughly ; 
but,  in  the  act,  its  native  fertility  was  put  in  motion- 


If  PREFACE. 

the  old  incumbrances  were  swept  away,  and  a  new  and 
lovely  vegetation  was  left  free  to  spread  and  luxuriate. 
The  transfer  of  the  Norman  Court  to  England,  was 
the  transfer  of  a  warlike,  romantic,  and  regal  system, 
into  a  land  of  native  generosity  and  courage,  yel 
hitherto  but  little  acquainted  with  the  higher  arts 
of  nations.  The  Conqueror,  and  his  descendants, 
brought  with  them  many  noble  recollections,  much 
spirit-stirring  pomp,  and  much  picturesque  ceremonial. 
Italy  was  then  the  golden  fount,  from  which  the  minor 
urns  drew  light :  and  the  intercourse  of  the  Norman 
princes,  the  universal  conquerors,  with  the  finest  regions 
of  Europe,  had  raised  their  court  to  a  comparative 
height  of  civilization.  The  Minstrel  followed  the 
Monarch,  and  was  essential,  not  more  to  his  indulgence 
than  to  his  fame.  The  wild  traditions  of  the  North  ; 
the  French  and  Italian  narratives  of  bold  exploit,  or 
idolatrous  devotion  to  the  Sex;  and  those  oriental 
tales,  whose  high-coloured  conceptions  of  supernatural 
agency*  royal  grandeur,  and  superb  enjoyment,  cap- 
tivate us,  even  in  our  day  of  cold  and  chastised  fancy, 
moved  before  the  young  mind  of  England  like  a  new 
creation.  If  England  had  been  left  to  the  full  exercise 
of  her  powers,  thus  awakened,  probably  no  nation 
of  Europe  would  have  made  a  more  rapid  progress  to 
the  highest  intellectual   excellence.     But   war   came 


PREFACE.  V 

across  her,  as  the  thunderbolt  across  the  eagle's  wing ; 
and  her  natural  vigour  was  bitterly  expended  in  the 
struggles  of  rival  usurpers,  and  in  foreign  wars,  fruitless 
of  all,  but  those  apples  of  Sodom,  the  glories  of  the 
sword. 

Yet  Poetry  is  a  part  of  human  nature,  and  exists 
wherever  man  exists.  A  succession  of  poets  rose  in 
even  this  tumultuous  period.  But  their  efforts  perished, 
either  from  defect  of  ability,  or  from  the  want  of  popular 
leisure,  when  life  and  possessions  were  in  perpetual 
hazard.  At  length,  Chaucer*  appeared,  and  established 
a  fame,  that  forced  its  way  through  the  difficulties 
of  his  age.  It  is  a  fine  remark  of  Bacon,  that,  '  while 
Art  perfects  things  by  parts,  Nature  perfects  all 
together.'  The  triumphant  periods  of  nations  have 
this  excellence  of  Nature — opulence,  arms,  and  intellect 
flourish  at  the  same  time  :  the  vegetation  of  the  imperial 
tree  is  urged  at  once  through  all  the  extremities,  and 
throws  out  its  vigour  alike  in  branch,  leaf,  and  bloom. 
The  reign  of  Edward  III.  had  placed  England  in  a 
high  European  rank,  and  with  her  rank  came  intellectual 
honours. 

Chaucer's  mind  was  cast  in  the  mould  of  Poetry, 
and  his  genius  was  practised  and  enriched  by  the  most 

•  Born  in  London,  1328,  died  1400. 
1* 


VI  PREFACE. 

singular  diversity  of  knowledge  and  situation.  He 
was  a  classical  student,  a  lawyer,  a  soldier,  a  mathema- 
tician, and  a  theologian.  His  successive  employments 
placed  the  whole  round  of  life  before  his  eyes.  He 
began,  by  being  a  member  of  both  universities  ;  he 
then  travelled  on  the  Continent ;  returned  to  study 
law  ;  became  an  officer  of  the  palace  ;  went  to  Italy  as 
an  envoy  ;  was  a  comptroller  of  the  customs  ;  was  an 
exile  for  the  reformation  ;  was  a  prisoner ;  and  closed 
his  various  and  agitated  career,  by  retiring  from  the 
world,  to  correct  those  Poems  by  which  he  was  to 
live  when  the  multitude  of  his  glittering  and  haughty 
compeers  were  forgotten. 

Chaucer  was  the  earliest  successful  cultivator  of  the 
harmony  of  the  English  language.  His  quaintnesses 
and  occasional  irregularities  of  thought  and  diction, 
belong  to  his  time ;  but  he  has  passages  of  copious 
and  honeyed  sweetness  that  belong  to  the  finest  poetic 
perception  alone. 

Spencer*  arose  in  the  most  memorable  period 
of  English  history,  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  And  his 
career,  though  less  diversified  than  that  of  his  great 
predecessor,  yet  had  much  of  similar  interest  and 
change.     He    was    early   introduced    to    the   stately 

•  Born  in  London,  1553— Died   1599. 


PREFACE.  VII 

court  of  Elizabeth,  and  was  led  there  by  Sydney,  the 
very  genius  of  romance  and  heroism.  He  next  visited 
the  Continent,  then  vivid  with  arts  and  arms  ;  and,  as 
the  envoy  of  Lord  Leicester,  visited  it  in  a  rank  which 
gave  him  the  most  fortunate  opportunities.  In  Ireland 
he  next  saw  the  contrast  of  a  people  naked  of  the 
arts  and  indulgences  of  life,  but  exhibiting  singular 
boldness  and  love  of  country ;  a  rude  magnificence 
of  thought  and  habit ;  a  stately  superstition ;  and  a 
spirit  of  proud  and  melancholy  romance,  cherished  by 
the  circumstances,  climate,  and  landscape  of  their  soil. 
To  those  influences  on  the  poet's  mind  may  be  attribu- 
ted some  of  the  characteristics  of  his  poetry,  for  in 
Ireland,  and  in  the  midst  of  its  most  delicious  scenery, 
he  completed  the  "  Fairy  Queen." 

The  faults  of  this  celebrated  poem  are  obvious,  and 
must  be  traced  to  Spencer's  admiration  of  the  Italian 
poets.  The  attempt  to  personify  the  passions,  and  the 
prominent  characters  of  his  time,  involves  the  story  in 
confusion.  Continued  allegory  exhausts  and  defeats 
the  imagination.  But  his  excellence  is  in  his  language  ; 
and  few  can  think  of  the  story,  in  the  incomparable 
sweetness  and  variegated  beauty  of  his  lines.  To  this 
hour  Spencer  is  a  spring  of  English  inexhaustible,  from 
which  all  the  leading  poets  have  drawn,  and  which  it 
still  fresh  and  sparkling  as  ever. 


V1U  I'KtrACl!. 

Panegyric  sinks  before  tlfe  name  of  Shakespeare.* 
His  dramatic  fame  has  become  proverbial,  and  is  now 
beyond  increase  or  diminution  by  posterity.  If  the 
conduct  of  his  plays  be  sometimes  dilatory,  perplexed, 
and  improbable ;  no  man  ever  redeemed  those  errors 
by  such  triumphant  power  over  the  difficulties 
character  and  poetry.  His  knowledge  of  the  workings 
of  the  human  breast  in  all  the  varieties  of  passion,  gives 
us  the  idea  that  he  had  either  felt  and  registered  every 
emotion  of  our  being,  or  had  attained  the  knowledge 
by  some  faculty  restricted  to  himself.  He  is,  above 
all  poets,  the  poet  of  passion  ;  not  merely  of  the  violent 
and  gloomy  distortion  into  which  the  greater  trials  of 
life  may  constrain  the  mind,  but  of  the  whole  range  of 
the  simple,  the  lovely,  and  the  sublime.  His  force  and 
flow  have  the  easy  strength  of  the  tide;  and  his  lights 
and  shadows  are  thrown  with  the  rich  negligence,  yet 
with  the  intensity  and  grandeur  of  the  colours  of 
heaven  on  the  ocean. 

Shakespeare's  fertility  increases  the  surprise  at  this 
accumulation  of  poetic  power.  Within  twenty-three 
years  he  produced  thirty  plays,  indisputably  genuine  ; 
and  contributed  largely  to  five  more,  if  he  did  not 
altogether    write    them.     Of  the   thirty,    twelve   are 

*  Born  at  Stratford  upon  Avon,  1564— died,  1616 


PUF.FACE.  IX 

master-pieces,  whose  equals  are  not  to  be  found  in  the 
whole  compass  of  the  living  languages,  nor  perhaps 
of  the  dead.  Yet,  susceptible  as  he  must  have  been 
of  the  poet's  delight  in  praise,  he  seems  to  have 
utterly  disregarded  fame.  He  left  his  writings  to 
the  false  and  garbled  copies  of  the  theatre.  It  is  not 
known  that  he  even  cared  whether  they  ever  passed  to 
posterity.  He  retired  from  active  life — from  the 
pleasures  of  general  society,  which  he  must  have  been 
eminently  capable  of  enjoying — and  from  authorship, 
a  still  severer  sacrifice, — while  he  was  yet  in  the  prime 
of  years,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  quiet  obscurity 
of  the  country,  without  allowing  us  room  for  a  sus- 
picion that  he  ever  regretted  his  abandonment  of  the 
world. 

No  man  ever  seems  to  have  been  so  signally  un- 
conscious of  what  mighty  things  he  was  doing,  or  of 
the  vast  space  that  he  must  fill  in  the  eyes  of  the  fu- 
ture. And  this  unconsciousness,  the  rarest  distinction 
and  clearest  evidence  of  great  minds,  crowns  his  su- 
premacy ;  for  it  must  have  proceeded  from  either  the 
creative  facility  that  made  all  effort  trivial,  or  the  still 
nobler  faculty,  that  sense  of  excellence,  which  makes 
all  that  genius  can  do  feeble  and  dim,  to  the  vivid  and 
splendid  form  of  perfection  perpetually  glowing  before 
the  mind. 


X  l'KEFACE. 

Milton's*  genius  was  equal  to  his  theme,  and  his 
theme  comprehended  the  loftiest,  loveliest,  and  most 
solemn  subjects  that  touch  the  heart  or  elevate  the 
understanding  of  man.  We  live  at  too  remote  a 
period  to  discover  how  far  his  powers  may  have  been 
excited  or  trained  by  his  time.  But  the  characteristic 
of  the  poetic  mind  is,  to  be  impressed  by  all  influences, 
to  be  laying  up  its  treasures  from  everv  event  and 
vicissitude,  to  be  gathering  its  materials  of  future  bril- 
liancy and  power  from  the  highest  and  lowest  sources, 
from  the  visible  and  the  invisible,  till  it  coerces  those 
vaporous  and  unformed  things  into  shape,  and  lifts 
them  up  for  the  admiration  of  the  world,  with  the 
buoyancy  and  radiance  of  a  cloud  painted  by  the  sun. 
The  stern  superstitions  of  the  republicans,  the  military 
array  of  the  land,  the  vast  prayer-meetings,  and  the 
fierce  and  gloomy  assemblages,  whether  for  war,  coun- 
cil, or  worship,  are  to  be  traced  in  Milton  ;  and  the 
most  unrivalled  fragments  of  the  '  Paradise  Lost,'  may 
be  due  to  his  having  lived  in  the  mids*  of  an  age  of 
public  confusion,  of  sorrow  and  of  slaughter. 

Milton  was  the  most  learned  of  poets.  Learning 
oppresses  the  nerveless  mind,  but  invigorates  the 
powerful  one.     The  celestial  armour  of  the  Greek  hero, 

•  Bora  in  London,  1603,  .To  I  1074. 


PREFACE.  XI 

which  let  in  death  to  his  feeble  friend,  only  gave  celes- 
tial speed  and  lightness  to  the  limbs  of  the  chosen 
champion.  But  the  true  wonder  is,  the  faculty  by 
which  Milton  assimilates  his  diversified  knowledge^ 
and  makes  the  most  remote  subservient  to  his  theme. 
His  scholarship  is  gathered  from  all  times  and  all  lan- 
guages ;  and  he  sits  in  the  midst  of  this  various  and 
magnificent  treasure  from  the  thousand  provinces  of 
wisdom,  with  the  majesty  of  a  Persian  king. 

Dryden*  revived  poetry  in  England,  after  its  anathe 
ma  by  the  Puritans,  and  its  corruption  by  the  French 
taste  of  Charles  II.  and  his  court.  He  was  the  first 
who  tried  the  powers  of  the  language  in  satire  to  any 
striking  extent :  and  his  knowledge  of  life,  and  his 
masculine  and  masterly  use  of  English,  placed  him  at 
the  summit  of  political  poets,  a  rank  which  has  never 
been  lowered.  No  English  poet  wrote  more  volumi- 
nously, and  none  retained  a  more  uncontested  superi- 
ority during  life.  By  a  singular  fortune,  his  vigour  and 
fame  increased  to  the  verge  of  the  grave. 

A  rapid  succession  of  Poets  followed,  of  whom  Pope 
retains  the  pre-eminence.  His  animation  and  poig- 
nancy made  him  the  favourite  of  the  higher  ranks ;  a 
favour  which  seldom  embodies  itself  with  the  permanent 

•  Born,  1631,  died  1700 


Xll  PREFACE. 

feelings  of  a  people.  But  the  poetry  of  the  4  Essay  on 
Man,'  however  founded  on  an  erroneous  system,  has 
the  great  preservative  qualities  that  send  down  author- 
ship to  remote  times.  Its  dignity,  force,  and  grandeur 
fix  it  on  the  throne  of  didactic  poetry.  Pope's  compli- 
ance with  habits,  then  sanctioned  by  the  first  names  of 
society,  has  humiliated  his  muse.  But  no  man  will 
desire  to  extinguish  the  good  for  the  sake  of  the  evil ; 
and  in  the  vast  and  various  beauty,  morality,  and  grace 
of  Pope,  we  may  wisely  forget  that  he  ever  wrote  an 
unworthy  line. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  rapid  sketch  to  more 
than  allude  to  subsequent  writers.  Our  own  age  has 
produced  individuals,  whose  ability  will  be  honoured  to 
the  latest  period  of  the  language.  But  the  genuine 
praise  of  the  Poet  rests  with  posterity :  and  of  those 
noble  ornaments  of  our  country,  and  it  can  possess 
none  nobler,  happily  all  survive,  with  the  exception  of 
Keats,  Wolfe,  and  the  mightier  name  of  Byron. 

Keats  died  at  an  early  age,  probably  long  before 
his  powers  were  matured  ;  but  not  till  he  had  given 
promise  of  excellence  in  his  peculiar  style.  His 
versification  was  chiefly  formed  on  the  model  of 
Spencer;  and  few  as  his  poems  are,  they  exhibit  a 
rich  and  delicate  conception  of  the  beauty  of  our 
language 


PREFACE.  XU1 

Wolfe's  fame  chiefly  rests  on  a  fine  poem  to  the 
memory  of  Sir  John  Moore. 

Lord  Byron's  merits  and  defects,  as  a  poet,  have 
been  largely  attributed  to  the  personal  temperament 
that  accounts  for,  and  palliates,  his  personal  career. 
The  constitutional  irritability  which  embittered  his  days, 
probably  gave  birth  to  the  pride,  sternness,  and  mis- 
anthrophy  of  his  style,  its  love  of  the  darker  passions, 
and  its  sullen  and  angry  views  of  human  life.  But 
the  error  was  often  nobly  redeemed  by  the  outbreak  of 
a  noble  mind,  by  touches  of  the  finest  feeling ;  flashes 
of  sunshine  through  the  gloom ;  vistas  of  the  rosiest 
beauty,  through  a  mental  wilderness  that  seemed  to 
have  been  bared  and  blackened  in  the  very  wrath  of 
nature. 

Like  all  men  of  rank,  he  had  temptations  to  contend 
with,  that  severely  try  man.  Fortune,  flattering  com- 
panionship, and  foreign  life,  were  his  natural  perils ; 
and  we  can  only  lament  that,  when  a  few  years  more 
might  have  given  him  back  to  his  country,  with  his 
fine  faculties  devoted  to  her  service,  and  cheered  by 
true  views  of  human  life,  his  career  was  closed.  His 
moral  system  as  a  poet  is  founded  on  the  double  error, 
that  great  crimes  imply  great  qualities ;  and,  that  virtue 
is  a  slavery.  Both  maxims  palpably  untrue ;  for  crime 
is  so  much  within  human  means,  that  the  most  stu- 
2 


XIV  PREFACE. 

pendous  crime  may  be  committed  by  the  most  abject 
of  human  beings.  And  common  experience  shows, 
that  to  be  superior  to  our  habits  and  passions  is  the 
only  true  freedom  ;  while  the  man  of  the  wildest  license 
is  only  so  much  the  more  fettered  and  bowed  down. 
But  on  the  grave  of  Byron  there  can  be  but  one  inscrip- 
tion—that living  long  enough  for  fame,  he  died  too 
soon  for  his  country.  All  hostility  should  be  sacrificed 
on  the  spot  where  the  remains  of  the  great  poet  sleep  ; 
and  no  man  worthy  to  tread  the  ground,  will  approach 
it  but  with  homage  for  his  genius,  and  sorrow  that  such 
genius  should  have  been  sent  to  darkness,  in  the  hour 
when  it  might  have  begun  to  fulfil  its  course,  and, 
freed  from  the  mists  and  obliquities  of  its  rising,  run  its 
high  career  among  the  enlighteners  of  mankind. 


The  object  of  this  volume  is  to  give  such  a  selection 
from  our  eminent  writers,  as  may  best  exhibit  their 
styles  of  thought  and  language.  All  their  beauties  it 
would  be  impossible  to  give.  But  the  following  pages 
contain  many  of  those  passages  on  which  their  authors 
would  perhaps  be  most  content  to  be   tried  at  the 


PREFACE.  XV 


tribunal  of  popularity.  There  are  other  Authors  from 
whom  this  volume  would  gladly  have  adduced  extracts, 
but  its  size  was  previously  restricted  ;  and  such  is  the 
opulence  of  English  poetry,  that  to  comprehend  all, 
many  volumes  must  have  been  formed,  instead  of  one. 
I  feel  the  more  privileged  to  speak  favourably  of  the 
following  Selection,  from  the  limited  part  which  I  have 
borne  in  it ;  a  considerable  portion  of  the  materials 
having  been  collected  before  the  work  came  into  my 
hands.  The  volume  was  commenced,  and  in  a  great 
measure  carried  on,  by  a  literary  friend,  to  whom  the 
idea  originally  suggested  itself  as  a  personal  amuse- 
ment ;  and  who  persevered  in  it  from  the  feeling,  that 
the  writings  of  the  great  poets  of  England  cannot  be 
put  into  the  popular  hand  too  often,  in  too  pleasing  a 
form,  or  under  too  accessible  circumstances. 


CONTENTS. 


Chaucer. 

From  the  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales  25 

Description  of  the  Kings  of  Thrace  and  India  33 

Spencer. 

The  Cave  of  Despair                 -  35 

The  Cave  of  Mammon      -                ....  42 

Description  of  Prince  Arthur     ...        -        -  43 

The  Cave  of  Merlin           --.--"-  45 

Shakespeare. 

Solitude     .--------  47 

Music 48 

Human  Life       --------  49 

Mercy        --------  51 

Moonlight  ------- 

Henry  IV.  and  Richard  II. 52 

Wolsey  ------- 

Death 55 

Human  Life      -                         -                -        -  56 
2* 


xviii  CONTENTS. 


Milton. 

From '  Sampson  Agonistes'  .                                   67 

From  '  Paradise  Lost'    Book  HI.  -                •                  60 

From  '  Paradise  Lost.'    Book  IV.  62 

From  '  Paradise  Lost'    Book  XI.  -                                   65 

L' Allegro         ....  .               -         67 

II  Penseroso       ....  »          72 

Lycidas      .....  78 

From '  Comus'           -  84 

Sonnets     ...  ...         87 


Drydkn 

Veni  Creator -       -  91 

Pope. 

Messiah      -----  ...93 

From  the 'Rape  of  the  Lock*           ....  97 

From  the  '  Elegy' 98 

From  the  •  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot.'  100 

Thompson. 

From  '  The  Casde  of  Indolence'  103 

Summer  in  the  Torrid  Zone      .....  107 

Death  of  the  Stag 109 

Winter  scenes    ......  110 


Young. 

Midnight   -  -  117 

Procrastination  -       •  120 


CONTENTS.  XIX 


Aksnsidb. 

For  a  Statue  of  Chancer    -                               -       •  122 
Mournful  Pleasures            ------ 

Pleasures  of  Imagination            -----  124 

For  a  Monument  at  Runnymeade      -  125 

For  a  Statue  of  Shakespeare 126 

Collins. 

The  Passions     -  -        -        -        127 

Epitaph      .---  ----131 

Ode  to  Evening  ------- 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline  ....  -        134 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thompson         -        -        -        -        135 

Gray. 

Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard  ...        -  137 

Ode  on  a  distant  prospect  of  Eton  College         -       -  143 

Hymn  to  Adversity    -------  137 

Johnson. 

From '  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes'  -        -        149 

Goldsmith. 

From '  The  Traveller' 152 

From  '  The  Deserted  Village' 165 

Bruce. 

From  '  An  Elegy' '178 

f  OOAN. 

Hymn        -  .....  180 


CONTENTS. 


Sir  William  Jones. 
An  Ode 


PAQB 
162 


Burns. 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 
To  a  Mountain  Daisy 
Song 


184 
191 
194 


COWPER. 

The  Infidel  and  the  Christian 
Portrait  of  Whitfield 
Christian  Liberty 
Anticipations  of  Prophecy 
Slavery      - 
The  Winter  Evening 
On  his  Mother's  Picture 
Benefits  of  Affliction 
The  Castaway 
To  Mrs.  Unwin 
To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton 
Human  Frailty 
Retirement         ... 
Providence  ... 


196 
197 

199 
205 
203 
210 
214 
218 
219 
222 
224 
225 
226 
227 


Crabbe. 

The  Mourner  228 

A  Mother's  Death 231 

Phoebe  Dawson 233 

Miseries  of  Vice  -  -  237 


contents.  xri 

.  *AOB, 

Charlotte  Smith. 

Sonnet       -  240 

Sovthst. 

Moonlight                                                                      -  241 

Pelayo  made  King                                                         -  242 

Meditation          -                         .....  044 

The  Vale  of  Covadongo             246 

Poverty      -                ...                -        -        -  249 

Slavery               -        -  250 

Inscription                  ...                .                 -  251 

Coleridge. 

The  Nightingale         -                         -                -        -  252 

Wordsworth. 

The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar            •  256 

The  French  Army  in  Rnssia      ...  263 

Lucy                  .....               .  2G5 

To  a  Lady                  267 

Scott. 

The  Last  Minstrel               - 265 

The  tomb  of  Michael  Scott 272 

The  Trial  of  Constance 278 

The  Cavalier 289 

Montgomery. 

The  Death  of  Adam           ....                -  290 

Ode            294 

The  Dial    ...                       ....  296 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend  ...  298 


ZXli                                               CONTENTS . 

PAOB. 

Campbell. 

Ode 

. 

. 

299 

Hohenlinden       -                         • 

. 

301 

The  Soldier's  drea.ii 

303 

Rogers. 

Foscari 

. 

. 

304 

Genevra 

. 

312 

The  Wish 

- 

- 

316 

Moorx. 

Awakened  Conscience                         • 

. 

. 

318 

From  '  The  Light  of  the  llsrara' 

. 

. 

320 

. 

321 

On  Rosseau 

• 

- 

326 

Byron. 

The  Dying  Gladiator 

- 

- 

330 

Waterloo 

- 

- 

331 

Drachenfels 

• 

- 

333 

An  Alpine  Storm 

- 

. 

335 

Farewell  to  England 

- 

336 

An  Italian  Sunset       -                 -        - 

• 

338 

The  Ocean 

. 

- 

339 

Modern  Greece          - 

- 

• 

340 

Solitude      -        - 

- 

- 

341 

To  Inez      - 

- 

342 

Remorse    - 

- 

. 

344 

Darkness 

346 

■ 

04NTENT8. 

xxiii 

PA0I. 

Btrov. 

Sennacherib 

349 

The  East    - 

350 

Lyric  Verses 

351 

Keats. 

From  '  Isabel' 

355 

To  Autumn 

357 

To  the  Nightingale 

359 

Robin  Hood 

362 

From  '  Hyperion' 

364 

MlLLMAN. 

From  '  The  Fall  of  Jerusalem* 

368 

From  '  The  Martyr  of  Antioch' 

371 

From  '  Belshazzar' 

376 

Wolfk. 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  M<M>re 

381 

Stanzas 

Mi 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

The  Hour  of  Death 

385 

Mozart's  Requiem 

387 

The  Palm  Tree 

390 

The  Meeting  of  the  Brothers 

393 

BEAUTIES  OF  THE  POETS. 


CHAUCER. 


PROM  THE  PROLOGUE  TO  THE  CANTERBURY  TALE* 

Befelle,  that  in  that  season  on  a  day, 
In  Southwark  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 
Ready  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Canterbury,  with  devout  courage, 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrie 
Well  nine  and  twenty  in  a  companie 
Of  sundry  folk,  by  aventure  yfalle 
In  fellowship,  and  pilgrims  were  they  all 
That  toward  Canterbury  wolden  ride. 
The  chambers  and  the  stables  weren  wide, 
And  well  we  weren  eased  at  best. 
And  shortly,  when  the  sun  was  gone  to  rest 
So  had  I  spoken  with  them  every  one, 
That  I  was  of  their  fellowship  anon, 
And  made  agreement  early  for  to  rise, 
3 


26  C  H  A  V  C  E  It 

To  take  our  way  there  as  I  you  advise, 

But  natheless,  while  I  have  the  time  and  space 
Before  I  further  in  the  tale  do  pass, 
It  3eemeth  me  accordant  unto  reason, 
To  tell  unto  you  all  the  condition 
Of  each  of  them,  so  as  it  seemed  me, 
And  who  they  weren,  and  of  what  degree ; 
And  eke  in  what  array  they  all  were  in, 
And  at  a  Knight  then  will  I  first  begin. 

A  Knight  there  was,  and  that  a  worthy  mu 
That  from  the  time  that  he  at  first  began 
To  riden  out,  he  loved  chivalrie, 
Truthe  and  honour,  freedom  and  courtesie. 
Full  worthy  was  he  in  his  lord's  war, 
And  thereto  had  he  ridden,  near  and  farre, 
As  well  in  Christendom  as  in  Heatheness, 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthiness. 
At  Alisandr'  he  was  when  it  was  won, 
Full  oftentime  he  had  the  field  outdone 
Aboven  all  the  nations  warring  in  Prusse. 
In  Lettone  had  he  travelled,  and  in  Russe 

******* 

With  many  a  noble  army  had  he  been. 
Of  mortal  battles  had  he  seen  fifteen, 
****** 

And  evermore  he  had  a  sovereign  praise, 
And  though  that  he  was  worthy  he  was  wise. 
And  of  his  port  as  meek  as  is  a  maid, 
Me  never  yet  no  villany  had  saide 
In  all  his  life,  unto  no  man  or  wight, 
He  was  a  very  perfect  noble  Knight. 


CHAUCER.  27 

But  for  to  tellen  you  of  his  array, 
His  horse  was  good,  but  yet  he  was  not  gay, 
Of  fustian  he  weared  a  gipon, 
AH  besmutted  with  his  habergeon, 
For  he  was  lately  come  from  his  voyage, 
And  wenten  for  to  do  his  pilgrimage. 

With  him  there  was  his  son,  a  fresh  young  Squire 
A  lover  and  a  lusty  bachelor, 
With  locks  curled  as  they  were  laid  in  press  ; 
Of  twenty  years  of  age  he  was  I  guess. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  equal  length, 
And  wonderf'ly  agile,  and  great  of  strength  ; 
And  he  had  something  seen  of  chivalrie, 
In  Flanders,  in  Artois,  and  Picardie, 
And  borne  him  well,  as  of  so  little  space, 
In  hope  to  standen  in  his  ladies  grace. 

Embroidered  was  he,  as  it  were  a  meade 
All  full  of  fresh  flowers,  white  and  red, 
Singing  he  wag,  or  fluting  all  the  day, 
He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May. 
Short  was  his  gown,  with  sleeves  full  long  and  wide 
Well  could  he  sit  on  horse,  and  fairly  ride. 
He  could  songs  make,  and  well  endite, 
Juste,  and  eke  dance,  and  well  pourtray  and  write. 
Courteous  he  was,  lowly  and  serviceaHe, 
And  carved  for  his  father  at  the  table. 

A  yeoman  had  he,  and  servants  no  mo 
At  that  time,  for  him  pleased  to  ride  so ; 
And  he  was  clad  in  coat  and  hood  of  green, 
A  sheafe  of  peacock  arrows  bright  and  keen 


28 


CHAUCER 


Under  his  belt  he  bare  full  thriftily  ; 
Well  could  he  dress  his  tackel  yeomanlj  . 
His  arrows  drooped  not  with  feathers  low 
And  in  his  hand  he  bare  a  mighty  bow. 

A  round  head  had  he,  with  a  brown  visage  ; 
Of  wood  craft  knew  he  well  all  the  usage  ; 
TJpon  his  arm  he  bare  a  gay  bracer, 
And  by  his  side  a  sword  and  buckler, 
And  on  that  other  side  a  gay  dagger, 
Harnessed  well,  and  sharp  as  point  of  spear ; 
A  cristofre  on  his  breast  of  silver  shene  ; 
An  horn  he  bare,  the  baudrick  was  of  green. 
A  forester  was  he  soothly  I  guess. 

There  also  was  a  Nun,  a  Prioress, 
That  in  her  smiling  was  full  simple  and>coy  ; 
Her  greatest  oath  was  but  by  Saint  Eloy  ; 
And  she  was  cleped  Madame  Eglantine. 
Full  well  she  sang  the  service  divine, 
Entuned  in  her  nose  full  sweetly  ; 
And  French  she  spake  full  faire  and  fetisly, 
After  the  school  of  Stratford  at  Bow, 
For  French  of  Paris  was  to  her  unknowe. 
At  meat  was  she  well  ytaught  withall ; 
She  let  no  morsel  from  her  lips  fall, 
Nor  wet  her  fingers  in  her  sauce  deep  ; 
Well  could  she  carry  a  morsel,  and  well  keep, 
That  no  drop  neer  fell  upon  her  breast. 
In  courtesie  was  set  full  much  her  lest. 

******** 

And  certainly  she  was  of  great  disport, 
And  full  pleasant,  and  amiable  of  port, 


CHAUCER  29 

And  took  much  pains  to  imitate  the  air 

Of  court,  and  hold  a  stately  manner, 

And  to  be  thoughten  high  of  reverence. 

But  for  to  speaken  of  her  conscience, 

She  was  so  charitable  and  so  piteous, 

She  would  weep  if  that  she  saw  a  mouse 

Caught  in  a  trap,  if  it  were  dead  or  bled ; 

Two  small  hounds  had  she  that  she  fed 

With  roasted  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wasted  bread, 

But  sore  she  wept  if  one  of  them  were  dead, 

Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a  staff  smarte  : 

She  was  all  conscience  and  tender  heart. 

Full  seemely  her  wimple  pinched  was  ; 
Her  nose  was  strait ;  her  eyes  were  grey  as  glass ; 
Her  mouth  full  small,  and  thereto  soft  and  red ; 
But  certainly  she  had  a  fair  forehead. 
It  was  almost  a  span  broad  I  trow, 
For  certainly  she  was  not  undergrowne. 

Full  handsome  was  her  cloak,  as  [  was  'ware 
Of  small  coral  about  her  arm  she  bare 
A  pair  of  beads,  gauded  all  with  green ; 
And  thereon  hung  a  broach  of  gold  full  shene, 
On  which  was  first  y written  a  crowned  A, 
And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

Another  Nun  also  with  her  had  she 
That  was  her  chaplain,  and  of  Priests  three. 

A  Monk  there  was,  full  skilful  in  the  chace, 
A  bold-rider,  no  better  in  that  place, 
A  manly  man,  to  be  an  Abbot  able ; 
Full  many  a  daintie  horse  had  he  in  stable, 
And  when  he  rode,  men  might  his  bridle  hear 
3* 


30  CHAUCER. 

Gingling  in  a  whistling  wind,  a6  clear, 
And  eke  as  loud,  as  doth  the  chapel  bell ; 


This  jolly  Monk  he  let  old  things  pass, 
And  held  after  the  new  world  the  trace. 
He  gave  not  for  the  text  a  pulled  hen, 
That  saith  that  hunters  be  not  holy  men ; 
And  that  a  Monk,  when  he  is  reckless, 
Is  like  unto  a  fish  that  is  waterless  ; 
That  is  to  say,  a  Monk  out  of  his  cloister  ; 
This  ilke  text  held  he  not  worth  an  oyster ; 
And  I  shall  say  that  his  opinion  was  good. 
Why  should  he  study,  and  make  himself  mad 
Or  upon  a  book  in  cloister  alway  pore, 
Or  toil  with  his  hands,  and  labour, 
As  Austin  bid  1  how  shall  the  world  be  served  ? 
Let  Austin  have  his  toil  to  him  reserved. 
Therefore  he  was  a  hard  rider  a  right: 
Greyhounds  he  had  as  swift  as  fowl  of  flight; 
Of  pricking  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare 
Was  all  his  lust,  for  no  cost  would  he  spare. 

I  saw  his  sleeves  all  gauded  at  the  hand 
With  fur,  and  that  the  finest  of  the  land. 
And  for  to  fasten  his  hood  under  his  chin, 
He  had  of  gold  a  curiously  wrought  pin  : 
A  love  knot  in  the  greater  end  there  was. 
His  head  was  bald,  and  shone  as  any  glass, 
And  eke  his  face,  as  it  had  been  anoint. 
He  was  a  lord  full  fat  and  in  good  point, 
His  eyes  were  deep,  and  rolling  in  his  head, 
That  steamed  as  a  furnace  of  lead. 


CHAUCER.  31 

His  boots  souple,  his  horse  in  great  estate, 
Now  certainly  he  was  a  fair  prelate, 
He  was  not  pale  as  a  tormented  ghost ; 
A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  roast : 
His  palfrey  was  as  brown  as  is  a  berry. 

A  good  man  there  was  of  religion, 
That  was  a  poor  Parsone  of  a  town  ; 
But  rich  he  was  in  holy  thought  and  work, 
He  was  also  a  learned  man,  a  clerk, 
That  Christ's  gospel  truely  would  preach. 
His  parishens  devoutly  would  he  teach, 
Benigne  he  was  and  wondrous  diligent, 
And  in  adversity  full  patient : 
And  such  he  was  yproved  often  times  ; 
Full  loth  were  lie  to  cursen  for  hi3  tithes, 
But  rather  would  he  given,  out  of  doubt, 
Unto  his  poor  parishioners  about, 
Of  his  offering,  and  eke  of  his  substance  ; 
He  could  in  little  thing  have  suffisancc. 
Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  far  asunder, 
But  he  nor  felt  nor  thought  of  rain  or  thunder, 
In  sickness  and  in  mischief  to  visit 
The  farthest  in  his  parish,  much  and  oft, 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staff. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  gave. 
That  first  he  wrought,  and  afteiward  he  taught, 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  words  caught, 
And  this  figure  he  added  yet  thereto, 
That  if  gold  rust,  what  should  iron  do  1 
And  if  a  priest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  trust, 
No  wonder  if  a  common  man  do  rust; 


3~  CHAUCER 

Well  ought  a  priest  ensample  for  to  give, 
By  his  cleanness,  how  his  sheep  should  live. 

He  set  not  his  benefice  to  hire, 
Or  left  his  sheep  bewildered  in  the  mire, 
And  ran  unto  London,  unto  Saint  Paul's, 
To  seeken  him  a  chanterie  for  souls, 
Or  with  a  brotherhood  to  be  withold : 
But  dwelt  at  home,  and  kept  well  his  fold, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  miscarry. 
He  was  a  shepherd  and  no  mercenarie, 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  virtuous, 
lie  was  to  sinful  men  not  dispiteous, 
Nor  of  his  speech  dangerous  nor  high, 
But  in  his  teaching  discrete  and  benigne. 
T«  •  draw  his  folk  to  heaven,  with  fairness, 
By  good  ensample,  was  his  business : 
But  if  were  any  person  obstinate, 
Whether  he  were  of  high,  or  low  estate, 
Him  would  he  reprove  sharply  for  the  nones, 
A  better  priest  I  trow  that  nowhere  is. 
lie  waited  after  neither  pomp  ne  reverence, 
ISor  inaked  him  no  spiced  conscience, 
But  Christ's  lore  and  his  Apostles  twelve 
He  taught,  but  first  he  followed  it  himselve. 


CHAUCER.  38 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  KINGS  OP  THRACE  AJfD  INDIA. 

There  mightst  thou  see,  coming  with  Palamon, 
The  great  Lycurgus,  sovrein  king  of  Thrace : 
Black  was  his  beard,  and  manly  was  his  face ; 
The  restless  glancing  of  his  eyen  bright, 
Shone  with  a  glowing  and  a  fearful  light, 
And  like  a  griffon  looked  he  about. 

******** 

His  limbs  were  great,  his  sinews  hard  and  strong, 

His  shoulders  broad,  his  arms  were  round  and  long ; 

And,  as  the  manner  was  in  his  countree, 

Full  high  upon  a  car  of  gold  stood  he, 

Drawen  by  four  bulls  of  milk-white  hue. 

And  in  the  place  of  any  coat  of  mail, 

He  had  a  bear's  skin,  black  as  is  a  coal. 

His  hair  was  long,  and  braided  down  his  back, 

As  any  raven's  feather  shining  black. 

A  coronet  of  gold,  of  greatest  weight, 

Upon  his  head  sat,  full  of  jewels  bright, 

Of  rubies  fine,  and  sparkling  diamonds. 

About  his  car  there  wenten  snow-white  hounds, 

Twenty  and  more,  as  great  as  any  steer, 

To  hunten  at  the  lion  or  the  deer  ; 

And  followed  him,  with  muzzle  fast  ybound. 

With  Arcite  came  Emetrius,  king  of  Inde, 
Upon  a  bay  steed,  trapped  o'er  with  steel, 
Covered  with  cloth  of  gold,  embroidered  well, 
Riding  like  the  dreadful  war  god,  Mars. 
His  coat  armour  was  of  a  cloth  of  Tarse, 


34  CHAUCER. 

Covered  with  pearls,  white,  round,  and  great ; 

Flis  saddle  was  of  pure  gold,  newly  beat ; 

A  mantle  upon  his  shoulders  hanging, 

Studded  with  rubies,  like  red  fire  sparkling ; 

His  crisp  hair  into  ringlets  ran, 

Yellow,  and  bright,  and  shining  as  the  sun ; 

His  nose  was  high,  his  eyen  bright  and  keen, 

His  lippes  round,  his  colour  was  sanguine, 

And  as  a  lion  he  his  looks  did  fling; 

His  voice  was  like  a  trumpet  thundering  ; 

Upon  his  head  he  wore  of  laurel  green 

A  garland,  fresh  and  beauteous  to  be  seen  : 

And  on  his  hand  he  bare,  for  his  delight, 

An  eagle  tame,  as  any  lily  white  ; 

About  him  ran  and  played  their  wilful  game 

Full  many  a  lion  and  a  leopard  tame. 


SPENCER. 


THE  CAVE  OF  DESPAIR 


Ere  long  they  come,  where  that  same  wicked  wight 
His  dwelling  has,  low  in  a  hollow  cave, 
Far  underneath  a  craggy  cliff  ypight, 
Dark,  doleful,  dreary,  like  a  greedy  grave, 
That  still  for  carrion  caroases  doth  crave  : 
On  top  whereof  ay  dwelt  the  ghastly  owl, 
Shrieking  his  baleful  note,  which  ever  drave 
Far  from  that  haunt  all  other  cheerful  fowl ; 
And  all  about  it  wandering  ghosts  did  wail  and  howl. 


And  all  about  old  stocks  and  stubs  of  trees, 
Whereon  nor  fruit  nor  leaf  was  ever  seen. 
Did  hang  upon  the  ragged,  rocky  knees  ; 
On  which  had  many  wretches  hanged  been, 
Whose  carcases  were  scattered  on  the  green, 
And  thrown  about  the  cliffs.     Arrived  there, 
That  bare-head  Knight,  for  dread  and  doleful  teene, 
Would  fain  have  fled,  ne  durst  approachen  near; 
But  the  other  forced  him  stay,  and  comforted  in  fear 


56  SPENCER. 

That  darksome  cave  they  enter,  where  they  find 
That  cursed  man,  low  sitting  on  the  ground, 
Musing  full  sadly  in  his  sullen  mind  ; 
His  grisly  locks,  long  growen  and  unbound, 
Disordered  hung  about  his  shoulders  round, 
And  hid  his  face;  through  which  his  hollow  eyne 
Looked  deadly  dull,  and  stared  as  astound; 
His  raw-bone  cheeks,  through  penury  and  pine, 
Were  shrunk  into  his  jaws,  as  he  did  never  dine : 


His  garment,  nought  but  many  ragged  clouts, 
With  thorns  together  pinned  and  patched  was, 
The  which  his  naked  sides  he  wrapped  abouts : 
And  him  beside  there  lay  upon  the  grass 
A  dreary  corse,  whose  life  away  did  pass, 
All  wallowed  in  his  own  yet  lukewarm  blood, 
That  from  his  wound  yet  welled,  fresh,  alas  1 
In  which  a  rusty  knife  fast  fixed  stood, 
And  made  an  open  passage  for  the  gushing  flood. 


Which  piteous  spectacle  approving  true 
The  wofull  tale  that  Trevisan  had  told, 
When  as  the  gentle  red-cross  knight  did  view, 
With  fiery  zeal  he  burnt  in  courage  bold, 
Him  to  avenge  before  his  blood  was  cold  ; 
And  to  the  villain  said,  "  Thou  damned  wight, 
The  author  of  this  fact  we  here  behold, 
What  justice  can  but  judge  against  thee  right, 
With  thine  own  blood  to  price  his  blood,  here  shed  in 
sight?" 


SPENCER.  37 

"  Wl<at  frantic  fit,"  quoth  he,  "  hath  thus  distraught 
Thee,  foolish  in  an,  so  rash  a.  doom  to  give  ? 
What  justice  ever  other  judgment  taught, 
But  he  should  die  who  merits  not  to  live? 
None  else  to  death  this  man  despairing  drove, 
But  his  own  guilty  mind  deserving  death. 
Is't  then  unjust  to  each  his  due  to  give? 
Or  let  him  die  that  loatheth  living  breath  ? 
Or  let  him  die  at  ease,  that  liveth  here  uneath  ? 


"  Who  travels  by  the  weary  wandering  way, 
To  come  unto  his  wished  home  in  haste, 
And  meets  a  flood,  that  doth  his  passage  stay, 
Is't  not  great  grace  to  help  him  over  past, 
Or  free  his  feet,  that  in  the  mire  stick  fast  ? 
Most  envious  man,  that  grieves  at  neighbours'  good, 
And  fond,  that  joyest  in  the  wo  thou  hast ; 
Why  wilt  not  let  him  pass,  that  long  hath  stood 
Upon  the  bank,  yet  wilt  thyself  not  pass  the  flood  ? 


*  He  there  does  now  enjoy  eternal  rest 
And  h.tppy  ease,  which  thou  doest  want  and  crave, 
And  further  from  it  daily  wanderest ; 
What  if  some  little  pain  the  passage  have, 
That  make  frail  flesh  to  fear  the  bitter  wave  ? 
Is  not  short  pain  well  borne,  that  brings  long  ease. 
And  lays  the  soul  to  sleep  in  quiet  grave  ? 
Sleep  after  toil,  port  after  stormy  seas, 
Ease  after  war,  death  after  life,  doth  greatly  please.** 

4 


38  SPENCER. 

The  knight  much  wondered  at  his  sudden  wit, 
And  said,  "  The  term  of  life  is  limited, 
Nor  may  a  man  prolong  nor  shorten  it: 
The  soldier  may  not  move  from  watchful  sted, 
Nor  leave  his  stand  until  his  captain  bid." 
•'  Who  life  did  limit  by  almighty  doom, 
Quoth  he,  "  knows  best  the  term  established  ; 
And  he,  that  points  the  sentinel  his  room, 
Doth  license  him  depart  at  sound  of  morning  drum 


"  Is  not  his  deed,  whatever  thing  is  done 
In  heaven  and  earth  1  did  not  he  all  create 
To  die  again  1  all  ends  that  are  begun  : 
Their  times  in  his  eternal  book  of  fate 
Are  written  sure,  and  have  their  certain  date. 
Who  then  can  strive  with  strong  necessity, 
That  holds  the  world  in  his  still  changing  state? 
Or  shun  the  death  ordained  by  destiny  1 
When  hour  of  death  is  come,  let  none  ask  whence  nor  why 


"The  longer  life,  I  wot  the  greater  sin  ; 
The  greater  sin,  the  greater  punishment : 
All  those  great  battles  which  thou  boasts  to  win, 
Through  strife,  and  blood-shed,  and  avengement 
Now  praised,  hereafter  dear  thou  shall  repent: 
For  life  must  life,  and  blood  must  blood  repay. 
Is  not  enough  thy  evil  life  forespent  1 
For  he,  that  once  hath  missed  the  right  way, 
The  further  he  doth  go,  the  further  he  doth  stray. 


SPENCER.  39 

"  Then  do  no  further  go,  no  further  stray  ; 
But  here  lie  down,  and  to  thy  rest  betake, 
TV  ill  to  prevent,  that  life  ensewen  may. 
For  what  hath  life,  that  may  it  loved  make, 
And  gives  not  rather  cause  it  to  forsake  1 
Fear,  sickness,  age,  loss,  labour,  sorrow,  strife, 
Pain,  hunger,  cold,  that  makes  the  heart  to  quake ; 
And  ever  fickle  fortune  rageth  rife  ; 
b~  1  which,  and  thousands  more,  do  make  a  loathsome  life. 


M  Thou,  wretched  man,  of  death  hath  greatest  need, 
If  in  true  balance  thou  wilt  weigh  thy  state ; 
For  never  knight,  that  dared  warlike  deed, 
More  luckless  disadventures  did  await. 
Witness  the  dungeon  deep,  wherein  of  late 
Thy  life  shut  up  for  death  so  oft  did  call ; 
And  though  good  luck  prolonged  hath  thy  date, 
Yet  death  then  would  the  like  mishaps  forestall, 
Into  the  which,  hereafter,  thou  maist  happen  fall. 


"  Why  then  dost  thou,  O  man  of  sin,  desire 
To  draw  thy  days  forth  to  their  last  degree? 
Is  not  the  measure  of  thy  sinful  hire 
High  heaped  up  with  huge  iniquity 
Against  the  day  of  wrath,  to  burden  thee  1 
Is't  not  enough,  that  to  this  lady  mild 
Thou  falsed  hast  thy  faith  with  perjury, 
And  sold  thyself  to  serve  Duessa  vile, 
With  whom  in  all  abuse  thou  hast  thyself  defiled  ? 


40  SPENCER. 

"  Is  not  he  just  that  all  this  doth  behold 
From  highest  heaven,  an  J  bears  an  equal  eye  t 
Shall  he  thy  sins  up  in  his  knowledge  fold, 
And  guilty  be  of  thine  impiety  1 
Is  not  his  law,  Let  every  sinner  die, 
Die  shall  all  flesh  1  what  then  must  needs  be  done, 
Is  it  not  better  to  die  willingly, 
Than  linger  till  the  glass  be  all  outrun  ? 
Death  is  the  end  of  woes :  die  soon,  O  fairy's  son." 

The  knight  was  much  enmoved  with  this  speech, 
That  as  a  sword's  point  through  his  heart  did  pierce; 
And  in  his  conscience  made  a  secret  breach, 
Well  knowing  true  all  that  he  did  rehearse, 
And  to  his  fresh  remembrance  did  reverse 
The  ugly  view  of  his  deformed  crimes ; 
That  all  his  manly  powers  it  did  disperse, 
As  he  were  charmed  with  enchanted  rhymes, 
That  oftentimes  he  quaked,  and  fainted  oftentimes. 

In  which  amazement  when  the  miscreant 
Perceived  him  to  waver  weak  and  frail, 
(Whiles  trembling  horror  did  his  conscience  daunt, 
And  hellish  anguish  did  his  soul  assail,) 
To  drive  him  to  despair,  and  quite  to  quail, 
He  showed  him  painted  in  a  table  plain, 
The  damned  ghosts  that  do  in  torments  wail, 
And  thousand  fiends,  that  do  them  endless  pain, 
With  fire  and  brimstone,  which  for  ever  shall  remain. 


SPENCER.  41 

The  sight  thereof  so  thoroughly  him  dismayed, 
That  nought  but  death  before  his  eyes  he  saw, 
And  ever-burning  wrath  before  him  laid, 
By  righteous  sentence  of  the  Almighty's  law. 
Then  gan  the  villain  him  to  over-craw, 
And  brought  unto  him  swords,  ropes,  poison,  fire, 
And  all  that  might  him  to  perdition  draw ; 
And  bade  him  choose  what  death  he  would  desire : 
For  death  was  due  to  him,  that  had  provoked  God's  ire. 


But  whenas  none  of  them  he  saw  him  take, 
He  to  him  brought  a  dagger,  sharp  and  keen, 
And  gave  it  him  in  hand :  his  hand  did  quake, 
And  tremble  like  a  leaf  of  aspen  green, 
And  troubled  blood  through  his  pale  face  was  seen 
To  come  and  go  with  tidings  from  the  heart, 
As  it  a  running  messenger  had  been. 
At  last,  resolved  to  work  his  final  smart, 
He  lifted  u  \  his  hand,  that  back  again  did  start. 


42  SPENCER. 


THE  CAVE  OF  MAMMON. 


That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and  strong, 
Like  an  huge  cave  hewn  out  of  rocky  clift, 
From  whose  rough  vault  the  ragged  breaches  hung, 
Embossed  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  gift, 
And  with  rich  metal  loaded  every  rift, 
That  heavy  ruin  they  did  seem  to  threat : 
And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lift 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spread  her  subtle  net, 
Enwrapped  in  foul  smoke,  and  clouds  more  blackthanjet. 

Both  roof,  and  floor,  and  walls  were  all  of  gold, 
But  overgrown  with  dust  and  old  decay, 
And  hid  in  darkness,  that  none  could  behold 
The  hue  thereof:  for  view  of  cheerful  day 
Did  never  in  that  house  itself  display, 
But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertain  tight; 
Such  as  a  lamp  whose  life  doth  fade  away  ; 
Or  as  the  moon,  clothed  with  cloudy  night, 
Does  show  to  him  that  walks  in  fear  and  sad  affright, 

And  over  all  sad  Horror,  with  grim  hue, 
Did  always  soar,  beating  his  iron  wings; 
And  after  him  owls  and  night-ravens  flew, 
The  hateful  messengers  of  heavy  things, 
Of  death  and  dolour  telling  sad  tidings  ; 
Whiles  sad  Celleno,  sitting  on  a  clift, 
A  song  of  bale  and  bitter  sorrow  sings, 
That  heart  of  flint  asunder  could  have  rift  i 
Which  having  ended,  after  him  she  flieth  swift. 


SPENCER.  43 


DESCRIPTION  OF  PRINCE  ARTHUR. 

At  last  she  chanced  by  good  hap  to  meet 
A  goodly  knight,  fair  marching'by  the  way, 
Together  with  his  squire,  arrayed  meet : 
His  glittering  armour  sinned  far  away, 
Like  glancing  light  of  Phoebus'  brightest  ray  ; 
From  top  to  toe  no  place  appeared  bare, 
That  deadly  dint  of  steel  endanger  may  ; 
Athwart  his  breast  a  baldrich  bruve  he  ware,    [rare : 
That  sinned  like  twinkling  stars, with  stones  most  precious 

And  in  tbe  midst  thereof  one  precious  stone, 
Of  wondrous  worth,  and  eke  of  wondrous  might, 
Shaped  like  a  ladies  head,  exceeding  shone, 
Like  Hesperus,  amongst  the  lesser  lights, 
And  strove  for  to  amaze  the  weaker  sights; 
Thereby  his  mortal  blade  full  comely  hung 
In  ivory  sheath,  ycarved  with  curious  slights; 
Whose  hilts  were  burnished  gold,  and  handle  strong, 
Of  mother-pearl,  and  buckled  with  a  golden  tongue. 

His  haughty  helmet,  horrid  all  with  gold, 
Both  glorious  brightness  and  great  terror  bred; 
For  all  the  crest  a  dragon  did  enfold 
With  greedy  paws,  and  over  all  did  spread 
His  golden  wings:  his  dreadful,  hideous  head, 
Close  couched  on  the  beaver,  seemed  to  throw 
From  flaming  mouth  bright  sparkles,  fiery  red, 
That  sudden  horror  to  faint  hearts  did  show ; 
And  scaly  tail  was  stretched  down  his  back  full  low. 


44  BF  £  H  C  E  R  . 

Upon  the  top  of  all  his  lofty  crest, 
A  bunch  of  hairs,  discoloured  diversely, 
With  sprinkled  pearl  and  gold  full  richly  drest, 
Did  shake,  and  seemed  to  dance  for  jollity  ; 
Like  to  an  almond  tree,  ymounted  high 
On  top  of  green  Selinis,  all  alone, 
With  blossoms  brave  bedecked  daintily  ; 
Whose  tender  locks  do  tremble,  every  one, 
At  every  little  breath  that  under  heaven  is  blown. 


His  warlike  shield  all  closely  covered  was, 
Ne  might  of  mortal  eye  be  ever  seen; 
Not  made  of  steel,  nor  of  enduring  brass, 
(Such  earthly  metals  soon  consumed  beene,) 
But  all  of  diamond,  perfect,  pure,  and  clean 
It  framed  was,  one  massy,  entire  mould, 
Hewn  out  of  adamant  rocks  with  engine  keen, 
That  point  of  spear  it  never  piercen  could, 
No  dint  of  direful  sword  divide  the  substance  would. 


The  same  to  wight  he  never  would  disclose, 
But  whenas  monsters  huge  he  would  dismay, 
Or  daunt  unequal  armies  of  his  foes, 
Or  when  the  flying  heavens  he  would  affray  : 
For  so  exceeding  shone  its  glistening  ray, 
That  Phoebus'  golden  face  it  did  attaint, 
As  when  a  cloud  his  beams  doth  overlay  ; 
And  silver  Cynthia  waxed  pale  and  faint, 
As  when  her  face  is  stained  with  magic  arts  constraint 


SPENCER.  45 


THE  CAVE  OF  MERLIN. 


Forthwith  themselves  disguising,  both  in  strange 
And  base  attire,  that  none  might  them  bewray, 
To  Maridunum,  that  is  now,  by  change 
Of  name,  Cayr-Merdiu  called,  they  took  their  way  : 
There  the  wise  Merlin,  whylome  wont  (they  say) 
To  make  his  wonne,  low  underneath  the  ground, 
In  a  deep  delve,  far  from  the  view  of  day ; 
That  of  no  living  wight  he  mote  be  found, 
Whenso  he  counseld,  with  his  sprites  encompast  round. 

And  if  thou  ever  happen  that  same  way 
To  travel,  go  to  see  that  dreadful  place  : 
It  is  an  hideous  hollow  cave  (they  say) 
Under  a  rock  that  lies  a  little  space 
From  the  swift  Barry,  tumbling  down  apace 
Amongst  the  woody  hills  of  Dynevowre  : 
But  dare  thou  not,  I  charge,  in  any  case, 
To  enter  into  that  same  baleful  bower, 
For  fear  the  cruel  fiends  should  thee  un'wares  devour. 

But  standing  high  aloft,  low  lay  thine  ear, 
And  there  such  ghastly  noise  of  iron  chains, 
And  brazen  cauldrons  thou  shalt  rumbling  hear, 
Which  thousand  spirits,  with  long  enduring  pains, 
Do  toss,  that  will  stun  thy  feeble  brains ; 
And  oftentimes  great  groans  and  grievous  stounds. 
When  too  huge  toil  and  labour  them  constrains  ; 
And  oftentimes  loud  strokes  and  ringing  sounds, 
From  under  that  deep  rock  most  horribly  rebounds. 


4G  SPENCER. 

The  cause,  some  say,  is  this  :  a  little  while 
Before  that  Merlin  died,  h*  did  intend 
A  brazen  wall  in  compass  to  compile 
About  Cairmardin,  and  did  it  commend, 
Unto  these  sprites  to  bring  to  perfect  end ; 
During  which  work  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
Whom  long  he  loved,  for  him  in  haste  did  send, 
Who  thereby  forced  his  workmen  to  forsake, 
Them  bound  till  his  return  their  labour  not  to  slake. 


In  the  meantime,  through  that  false  lady's  train, 
He  was  surprized  and  buried  under  bier, 
Ne  ever  to  his  work  returned  again  ; 
Natheless  those  fiends  may  not  their  work  forbear, 
So  greatly  his  commandement  they  fear, 
But  there  do  toil  and  travail  day  and  night, 
Until  that  brazen  wall  they  up  do  rear  ; 
For  Merlin  had  in  magic  more  insight 
Than  ever  him  before  or  after  living  wight. 


For  he  by  words  could  call  out  of  the  sky 
Both  sun  and  moon,  and  make  them  him  obey ; 
The  land  to  sea,  and  sea  to  mainland  dry, 
And  darksome  night  he  eke  could  turn  to  day. 
Huge  hosts  of  men  he  could  alone  dismay, 
And  hosts  of  men  of  meanest  things  could  frame, 
When  so  him  list  his  enemies  to  fray  ; 
That  to  this  day  for  terror  of  his  fame, 
The  fiends  do  quake,  when  any  him  to  them  does  name 


I 


SHAKESPEARE. 


SOLITUDE. 


A  re  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  t 
Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  seasons'  difference ;  as  the  icy  fang, 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind  ; 
Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile,  and  say, 
This  is  no  flattery  :  these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity  ; 
Which  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head  ; 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brookw, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing. 


48  SHAKESPEARE. 

MUSIC. 

I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music 

The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive : 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd, 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unliandled  colts, 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing  loud, 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood  ; 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound, 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 
Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  a  modest  gaze, 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music  :  therefore  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  Jloods  ; 
Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 
The  man  that  hath  not  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus  : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 


If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on, 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;  that,  surfeiting, 
The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 
That  strain  again ; — it  had  a  dying  foil: 
O !  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odour 


E.Gallaudet. 


'MUJiE©. 


SHAKESPEARE.  49 

HUMAN  LIFE. 

Reason  thus  with  life, — 
If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep :  a  breath  thou  art, 
(Servile  to  all  the  skiey  influences,) 
That  do  this  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st, 
Hourly  afflict:  merely,  thou  art  Death's  fool ; 
For  him  thou  labour'st  by  thy  flight  to  shun, 
Yet  run'st  toward  him  still :  thou  art  by  no  means  valiant; 
For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 
Of  a  poor  worm  ;  thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep, 
And  that  thou  oft  provok'st;  yet  grossly  fear'st 
Thy  death,  which  is  no  more.     Thou'rt  not  thyself; 
For  thou  exist'st  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust :  happy  thou  art  not ; 
For  what  thou  hast  not,  still  thou  striv'st  to  get ; 
And  what  thou  hast,  forget'st ;  thou  art  not  certain; 
For  thy  complexion  shifts  to  strange  effects, 
After  the  moon  :  if  thou  art  rich,  thou  art  poor ; 
For,  like  an  ass,  whose  back  with  ingots  bows, 
Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  riches  but  a  journey, 
And  death  unloads  thee  :  friend  hast  thou  none  ; 
For  thy  own  bowels,  which  do  call  thee  sire, 
The  mere  effusion  of  thy  proper  loins, 
Do  curse  the  gout,  serpigo,  and  the  rheum, 
For  ending  thee  no  sooner:  thou  hast  nor  youth,  nor  age  J 
But,  as  it  were,  an  after-dinner  sleep, 
Dreaming  on  both  !   for  all  thy  blessed  youth 
Becomes  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 
Of  palsied  eld  ;  and  when  thou'rt  old,  and  rich. 
Thou  hast  neithtT  heat,  affection,  limb,  nor  beauty, 


50  SHAKESPEARE 

To  make  thy  riches  pleasant.     What's  yet  in  this 
That  hears  the  name  of  life  1     Yet  in  this  life 
Lie  hid  more  thousand  deaths  :  yet  death  we  fear, 
That  makes  these  odds  all  even. 

All  the  world's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players : 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
And  then,  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.     And  then,  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.     Then,  the  soldier, 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard  ; 
Jealous  in  honour,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.     And  then,  the  justice  ; 
In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lined, 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances  ; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon  ; 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side  ; 
His  youthful  hose  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank  ;  and  his  big  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
Tnd  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all, 
Ahat  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion  ; 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every  thing. 


SHAKESPK IRE.  51 


MERCY. 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained  ; 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blessed  ; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes  : 

'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown  : 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  lungs  ; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway, 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 

When  mercy  seasons  justice. 


MOONLIGHT. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  ;  soft  stillness  and  the  night, 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica :  look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  : 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb,  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubims  : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 


52  SHAKESPEARE. 

HENRY  IV    AND  RICHARD  II. 

York.  Then,  as  I  said,  the  duke,  great  Bolingbroke, 
Mounted  upon  a  hot  and  fiery  steed, 
Which  his  aspiring    rider  seemed  to  know, 
With  slow,  but  stately  pace,  kept  on  his  course, 
While  all  tongues  cried — God  save  thee,  Bolingbroke  ! 
You  would  have  thought  the  very  windows  spake, 
So  many  greedy  looks  of  young  and  old 
Through  casements  darted  their  desiring  eyes 
Upon  his  visage  ;  and  that  all  the  walls, 
With  painted  imagery,  had  said  at  once — 
Jesu  preserve  thee  !  welcome,  Bolingbroke  ! 
Whilst  he  from  one  side  to  the  other  turning, 
Bare-headed,  lower  than  his  proud  steed's  neck, 
Bespake  them  thus — /  thank  you,  Countrymen  : 
And  thus  still  doing,  thus  he  pass'd  along. 

Duch.  Alas  !  poor  Richard  !  where  rid  he  the  while  t 
York.  As  in  a  theatre,  the  eyes  of  men, 
After  a  well  graced  actor  leaves  the  stage, 
Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next, 
Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious : 
Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's  eyes 
Did  scowl  on  Richard  ;  no  man  cried,  God  save  him  ; 
No  joyful  tongue  gave  him  his  welcome  home  ; 
But  dust  was  thrown  upon  his  sacred  head  ; 
Which  with  such  gentle  sorrow  he  shook  off, 
His  face  still  combating  with  tears  and  smiles, 
The  badges  of  his  grief  and  patience, — 
That  had  not  God,  for  some  strong  purpose,  steeled 
The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  perforce  have  melted, 
And  barbarism  itself  have  Ditied  him. 


SHA.KESPEARE.  53 


WOLSEY. 

Nay  then,  farewell, 
I  have  touched  the  highest  point  of  all  my  greatness  ; 
And  from  that  full  meridian  of  my  glory, 
I  haste  now  to  my  setting :  I  shall  fall 
Like  a  bright  exhalation  in  the  evening, 
And  no  man  see  me  more. 
So  farewell  to  the  little  good  you  bear  me. 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  ;  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope,  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon  him: 
The  third  day  conies  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And,  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  was  a  ripening, — nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do-     I  have  ventured, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
These  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory  ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth :  my  hijrh  blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  ine  ;    and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary  .and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 

Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  opened :  O,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes'  favours. 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
The  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  our  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  war  or  women  have ; 
6* 


54  SHAKESPEARE. 

And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again. 

Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear, 
In  all  my  miseries  ;  but  thou  hast  forced  me 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth  to  play  the  woman. 
Let's  dry  our  eyes  :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell ; 
And,  when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be, 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  must  more  be  heard — say,  I  taught  thee, — 
Say,  Wolsey,  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour, 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in  ; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  missed  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  which  ruined  me  : 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition  ; 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels  :  how  can  man  then, 
The  image  of  liis  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  it  ? 
Love  thyself  last;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee  ; 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear  not : 
Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's,  and  Truth's,  then  if  thou  fall'st,  O  Cromwell 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr.     Serve  the  king ; 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 
To  the  last  penny  :  'tis  the  king's  ;  my  robe, 
And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 
I  dare  now  call  my  own.     O  Cromwell,  Cromwell, 
Had  I  but  served  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  served  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  to  mine  enemies. 


SHAKESPEARE  55 


DEATH. 


To  be,  cr  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question  : 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  up  arms  against  a  sea  of  trouble 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them  1 — To  die — to  sleep — 
No  more  ; — and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to  : — 'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  die, — to  sleep  ; — 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream  ;  aye,  there's  the  rub  ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  bave  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause : — there's  the  respect, 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life  : 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ]  who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life  ; 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 
The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns, — puzzles  the  will ; 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  the  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  Hot  of! 
Tins  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 


56  SHAKESPEARE. 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

To  morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time  ; 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  Out,  brief  candle  • 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow  ;  a  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing. 


I  have  lived  long  enough  :  my  way  of  life 
Is  fallen  into  the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf: 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
i  must  not  look  to  ha've  ;  but  in  their  stead, 
Curses,  not  loud,  but  deep  ;  mouth-honour,  breath, 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  but  dare  not 


MILTON. 

FROM-  SAMPSON  AGONISTES. 

A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  further  on ; 
For  yonder  bank  hath  choice  of  sun  or  shade  : 
There  I  am  wont  to  sit,  when  any  chance 
Relieves  me  from  my  task  of  servile  toil, 
Daily  in  the  common  prison  else  enjoined  me ; 
Where  I,  a  prisoner  chained,  scarce  freely  draw 
The  air  imprisoned  also,  close  and  damp, 
Unwholesome  draught :  but  here  I  feel  amends, 
The  breath  of  heaven  fresh  blowing,  pure  and  sweet, 
With  day-spring  born  ;  here  leave  me  to  respire. 
This  day  a  solemn  feast  the  people  hold 
To  Dagon  their  sea-idol,  and  forbid 
Laborious  works  :  unwillingly  this  rest 
Their  superstition  yields  me  :  hence  with  leave, 
Retiring  from  the  popular  noise,  I  seek 
This  unfrequented  place  to  find  some  ease  ; 
Ease  to  the  body  some,  none  to  the  mind, 
From  restless  thoughts,  that  like  a  deadly  swarm 
Of  hornets  armed,  no  sooner  found  alone, 


58  MILTON. 

But  rush  upon  me  thronging,  and  present 
Times  past,  what  once  I  was,  and  what  am  now. 

O  wherefore  was  my  birtli  from  heaven  foretold 

Twice  by  an  Angel,  who  at  last,  in  sight 

Of  both  my  parents,  all  in  flames  ascended 

From  off"  the  altar,  where  an  offering  burned, 

As  in  a  fiery  column  charioting 

His  godlike  presence,— 

Why  was  my  breeding  ordered  and  prescribed 

As  of  a  person  separate  to  God, 

Destined  for  great  exploits  ;  if  I  must  die 

Betrayed,  captived,  and  both  my  eyes  put  out, 

Made  of  mine  enemies  the  scorn  and  gaze  ; 

To  grind  in  brazen  fetters  under  task 

With  this  heaven-gifted  strength  ?  O  glorious  strength 

Put  to  the  labour  of  a  beast,  debased 

Lower  than  bond-slave  !     Promise  was,  that  I 

Should  Israel  from  Philistian  voke  deliver : 

Ask  for  this  great  deHverer  now,  and  find  him 

Eyeless  in  Gaza,  at  the  mill  with  slaves, 

Himself  in  bonds  under  Philistian  yoke. 

But  chief  of  all 
O  loss  of  sight,  of  thee  I  most  complain  ! 
Blind  among  enemies,  O  worse  than  chains, 
Dungeon,  or  beggary,  or  decrepit  age  ! 
Light,  the  prime  work  of  God,  to  me  extinct, 
And  all  her  various  objects  of  delight 
Annulled,  which  might  in  part  my  grief  have  eased; 
Inferior  to  the  vilest  now  become 
Of  man  or  worm  :  the  vilest  here  excel  me ; 
They  creep,  yet  see  ;  I,  dark  in  light,  exposed 


M  I  L  T  0  N  .  59 

To  daily  fraud,  contempt,  abuse,  and  wrong ; 

Within  doors  or  without,  still,  as  a  fool, 

In  power  of  others,  never  in  my  own. 

O  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon, 

Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse, 

Without  all  hope  of  day! 

O,  first-created  Beam,  and  thou,  great  Word. 

'  Let  there  be  light,'  and  light  was  over  all, 

Why  am  1  thus  bereav'd  thy  prime  decree  1 

The  sun  to  me  is  daik 

And  silent  as  the  moon, 

When  she  deserts  the  night, 

Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave. 

Since  light  so  necessary  is  to  life, 

And  almost  life  itself,  if  it  be  true 

That  light  is  in  the  soul, 

She  all  in  every  part ;  why  was  the  light 

To  such  a  tender  ball  as  th'  eye  confined, 

So  obvious  and  so  easy  to  be  quenched  ? 

And  not  as  feeling  through  all  parts  diffused, 

That  she  might  look  at  will  through  every  pore  ? 

Then  had  I  not  been  thus  exiled  from  light, 

To  live  a  life  half  dead,  a  living  death, 

And  buried  :  but,  O  yet  more  miserable  ! 

Myself  my  sepulchre,  a  moving  grave  ; 

Buried,  yet  not  exempt 

By  privilege  of  death  and  burial, 

From  worst  of  other  evils,  pains,  and  wrongs ; 

But  made  hereby  obnoxious  more 

To  all  the  miseries  of  life, 

Life  in  captivity 

Among  inhuman  foes. 


60  mil  row. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

Many  are  the  sayings  of  the  wise, 
In  ancient  and  in  modern  books  enrolled, 
Extolling  patience  as  the  truest  fortitude  ; 
And  to  the  bearing  well  of  all  calamities, 
All  chances  incident  to  man's  frail  life, 
Consolatories  writ 

With  studied  argument,  and  much  persuasion  sought 
Lenient  of  grief  and  anxious  thought; 
But  with  the  afflicted  in  his  pangs  their  sound 
Little  prevails,  or  rather  seems  a  tune 
Harsh,  and  of  dissonant  mood  from  his  complaint ; 
Unless  he  feel  within 
Some  source  of  consolation  from  above, 
Secret  refreshings  that  repair  his  strength, 
And  fainting  spirits  uphold. 


FROM  "  PARADISE  LOST."    BOOK  III. 

Hail,  holy  light,  offspring  of  heaven  first  born, 
Or  of  the  eternal,  co-eternal  beam  ! 
May  I  express  thee  unblamcd  1    Since  God  is  light, 
And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in  thee, 
Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  uncreate  I 
Or  hearest  thou,  rather,  pure  etherial  stream, 
Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  1     Before  the  Sun, 
Before  the  Heavens  thou  wort ;  and  at  the  voice 
Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  did  invest 


MILTON.  61 

The  rising  world  of  waters,  dark  and  deep, 
Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 
Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing, 
Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detained 
In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in  my  flight 
Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness  borne, 
With  other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre, 
-  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night, 
Taught  by  the  heavenly  muse  to  venture  down 
The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  reascend, 
Though  hard  and  rare  :  Thee  I  revisit  safe, 
And  feel  thy  sovereign,  vital  lamp  ;  but  thou 
Revisitst  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn ; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched  their  orbs, 
Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.     Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt, 
Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song ;  but  chief, 
Thee,  Zion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath, 
That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 
Nightly  I  visit :  nor  sometimes  forget 
Those  other  two,  equalled  with  me  in  fate, 
So  were  I  equalled  with  them  in  renown, 
Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Mceonides, 
And  Tiresias  and  Phineas,  prophets  old  ; 
There  feed  on  thoughts  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers  ;  as  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling,  and,  in  shadiest  covert  hid, 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.     Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return  ;    but  not  to  me  return 
Day,  ar  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
^  6 


62  M.LTON. 

Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose 

Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine ; 

But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 

Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 

Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair, 

Presented  with  a  universal  blank 

Of  Nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 

And  wisdom,  at  one  entrance,  quite  shut  out. 

So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 

Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 

Irradiate ;  there  plant  eyes  ;  all  mist  from  thence 

Purge  and  disperse  ;  that  I  may  see  and  tell 

Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 


FROM  THE  SAME.     BOOK  IV. 

O  thou  that  with  surpassing  glory  crowned, 
Lookst  from  thy  sole  dominion  like  the  god 
Of  this  new  world  ;  at  whose  sight  all  the  stars 
Hide  their  diminished  heads  ;  to  thee  I  call, 
But  with  no  friendly  voice,  and  add  thy  name 

0  Sun,  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beams, 
That  bring  to  my  remembrance  from  what  state 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once  above  thy  sphere; 
Til!  pride  and  worse  ambition  threw  me  down, 
Warring  in  Heaven  against  Heaven's  matchless  King ; 
And  wherefore  1     He  deserved  no  such  return 

From  me,  whom  he  created  what  I  was 

In  that  bright  eminence,  and  with  his  good 

Upbraided  none  ;  nor  wits  his  service  hard. 

What  could  be  less  than  to  afford  him  praise,  ^ 


MILTON.  63 

The  easiest  recompense,  and  pay  him  thanks, 

How  due  !  yet  all  his  good  proved  ill  in  me, 

And  wrought  but  malice  ;  lifted  up  so  high, 

I  'sdained  subjection,  and  thought  one  step  higher 

Would  set  me  highest,  and  in  a  moment  quit 

The  debt  immense  of  endless  gratitude, 

So  burdensome,  still  paying,  still  to  owe, 

Forgetful  what  from  him  I  still  received, 

And  understood  not  that  a  grateful  mind 

By  owing  owes  not,  but  still  pays,  at  once 

Indebted  and  discharged  ;  what  burden  then? 

O  had  his  powerful  destiny  ordained 

Me  some  inferior  angel,  I  had  stood 

Then  happy  ;  no  unbounded  hope  had  raised 

Ambition.     Yet  why  not1?  some  other  power 

As  great  might  have  aspired,  and  me  though  mean 

Drawn  to  his  part :  but  other  powers  as  great 

Fell  not,  but  stood  unshaken  from  within, 

Or  from  without,  to  all  temptations  armed. 

Hadst  thou  the  same  free  will  and  power  to  stand  t 

Thou  hadst ;  whom  hast  thou  then,  or  what  t'accuse, 

But  Heaven's  free  love  dealt  equally  to  all? 

Be  then  his  love  accursed,  since  love  or  hate, 

To  me  alike  it  deals  eternal  wo. 

Nay,  cursed  be  thou  ;   since  against  his  thy  will 

Chose  freely  what  it  now  so  justly  rues. 

Me  miserable  !  which  way  shall  I  fly 

Infinite  wrath,  and  infinite  despair? 

Which  way  I  fly  is  Hell ;  myself  am  Hell ; 

And  in  the  lowest  deep  a  lower  deep 

Still  threatening  to  devour  me,  opens  wide, 

To  which  the  Hell  I  suffer  seems  a  Heaven, 


64  MILTON. 

O  then  at  last  relent ;  is  there  no  place 

Left  for  repentance,  none  for  pardon  left  1 

None  left  but  by  submission  ;  and  that  word 

Disdain  forbids  me,  and  my  dread  of  shame 

Among  the  spirits  beneath,  whom  I  seduced 

With  other  promises  and  other  vaunts 

Than  to  submit,  boasting  I  could  subdue 

The  Omnipotent.     Ah  me,  they  little  know 

How  dearly  I  abide  that  boast  so  vain, 

Under  what  torments  inwardly  I  groan, 

While  they  adore  me  on  the  throne  of  hell, 

With  diadem  and  sceptre  high  advanced, 

The  lower  still  I  fall,  only  supreme 

In  misery  ;  such  joy  ambition  finds. 

But  say  I  could  repent,  and  could  obtain 

By  act  of  grace  my  former  state  :  how  soon 

Would  height  recall  high  thoughts,  how  soon  unsay 

What  feigned  submission  swore  1  ease  would  recant 

Vows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void. 

For  never  can  true  reconcilement  grow 

Where  wounds  of  deadly  hate  have  pierced  so  deep ; 

Which  would  but  lead  me  to  a  worse  relapse 

And  heavier  fall :  so  should  I  purchase  dear 

Short  intermission  bought  with  double  smart. 

This  knows  my  punisher ;  therefore  as  far 

From  granting  he,  as  I  from  begging  peace : 

All  hope  excluded  thus,  behold  instead 

Of  us  outcast,  exiled,  his  new  delight 

Mankind  created,  and  for  him  this  world. 

So  farewell,  hope,  and  with  hope,  farewell  fear, 

Farewell  remorse  :  all  good  to  me  is  lost ; 

Evil  be  thou  my  good ;   by  thee  at  least 


MILTON.  65 

Divided  empire  with  Heaven's  King  I  hold, 
By  thee,  and  more  than  half  perhaps  will  reign : 
As  man  ere  long,  and  this  new  world,  shall  know. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

O  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death  ! 
Must  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradise  1  thus  leave 
Thee,  native  soil !  these  happy  walks  and  shades, 
Fit  haunt  of  gods?   where  I  had  hope  to  spend, 
Quiet  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 
That  must  he  mortal  to  us  both.     O  Flowers, 
That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow, 
My  early  visitation  and  my  last 
At  even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 
From  the  first  opening  bud,  and  gave  ye  names! 
Who  now  shall  rear  ye  to  the  sun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,  and  water  from  the  ambrosial  fount? 
Thee,  lastly,  nuptial  bower !  by  me  adorned 
With  what  to  sight  or  smell  was  sweet !  from  thee 
How  shall  I  part  and  whither  wander  down 
Into  a  lower  world  ;  to  this  obscure 
And  wild  1     How  shall  we  breathe  in  other  air 
Less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortal  fruits  ? 


FROM  THE  SAME.    BOOK   XI. 

To  whom  thus  Michael.     Death  thou  hast  seen 
In  his  first  shape  on  man ;  but  many  shapes 
Hath  Death,  and  many  are  the  ways  that  lead 
6* 


66  MILTON. 

To  his  grim  cave  all  dismal ;  yet  to  sense 
More  terrible  at  the  entrance,  than  within. 
Some,  as  thou  sawest,  by  violent  stroke  shall  die  ; 
By  fire,  flood,  famine,  by  intemperance  more 
In  meats  and  drinks,  which  on  the  earth  shall  bring 
Diseases  dire,  of  which  a  monstrous  crew 
Before  thee  shall  appear  ;  that  thou  mayst  know 
What  misery  the  inabstinence  of  Eve 
Shall  bring  on  men. 

Immediately  a  place 
Before  his  eyes  appeared,  sad,  noisome,  dark ; 
A  lazar-house  it  seemed  ;  wherein  were  laid 
Numbers  of  all  diseased  ;  all  maladies 
Of  ghastly  spasm,  or  racking  torture,  qualms 
Of  heart-siek  agony  ;  all  feverous  kinds  ; 
Convulsions,  epilepsies,  fierce  catarrhs, 
Intestine  stone  and  ulcer,  colick  pangs, 
Demoniack  frenzy,  moping  melancholy, 
And  moon-struck  madness  ;  pining  atrophy, 
Marasmus,  and  wide-wasting  pestilence  ; 
Dropsies,  and  asthmas,  and  joint-racking  rheums. 
Dire  was  the  tossing,  deep  the  groans.     Despair 
Tended  the  sick,  busiest  from  couch  to  couch ; 
And  over  them  triumphant  Death  his  dart 
Shook  ;    but  delayed  to  strike,  though  oft  invol  <"* 
With  vows,  as  their  chief  good,  arid  final  hope. 

Sight  so  deform  what  heart  of  rock  could  long 
Dry-eyed  behold  1     Adam  could  not,  but  wept, 
Though  not  of  woman  born  :    compassion  quelled 
His  best  of  man,  and  gave  him  up  to  tears 
A  space,  till  firmer  thoughts  restrained  excess  ; 
And  scarce  recovering  words,  his  plaint  renewed. 


MILTON.  67 


L'ALLEGRO. 

Heuce,  loathed  melancholy, 
Of  Cerberus,  and  Blackest  Midnight  born, 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 
'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights  unnoiy, 

Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 
Where  brooding  darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings, 

And  the  night  raven  sings  ; 
There  under  ebon  shades  and  low  browed  rocks 

As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 
In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come  thou  goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  Heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth, 
With  two  sister-graces  more, 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore, 
Or  whether  (as  some  sages  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  once  a-maying, 
There  on  beds  of  violets  blue, 
And  fresh  blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 
Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 


63  MILTON. 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  hoth  his  sides, 
Come  and  trip  it  as  you  go  ; 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee, 
The  mountain  nymph  sweet  Liberty  ; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honour  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her  and  live  with  thee 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free  ; 
To  hear  the  lark  hegin  his  flight 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night, 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweet  briar  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine  : 
While  the  cock  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack  ©r  the  barn-door 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  ; 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill, 
Sometime  walking  not  unseen 
By  hedge  row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 


MILTON . 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight, 

While  the  plowman  near  at  hand 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  hlithe, 

And  the  mower  wets  his  scythe, 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 

Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures; 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray, 

Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast, 

The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 

Shallow  brook  and  rivers  wide. 

Towers  and  battlements  It  sees 

Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 

The  Cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 

Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes, 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met, 

Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set, 

Of  herbs,  and  other  couutry  messes, 

Which  the  neat  handed  Phyllis  dresses ; 

And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves  ; 

Or  if  the  earlier  season  lead 

To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes  with  secure  delight 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 


69 


Ml LTON. 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound, 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 

Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade  ; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday  ; 

Till  the  live-long  daylight  fail ; 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  fe  \t, 

How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat, 

She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said, 

And  he,  by  friars,  lantern  led  ; 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat, 

To  earn  his  cream  bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  had  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten  day  labourers  could  not  end  ; 

Then  lays  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 

And  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 

And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then, 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 

In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold  ; 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Rain  influence,  and  adjudge  the  prize, 

Of  wit,  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 


M  I  r.  T  O  N  .  71 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  cfear, 

And  Pomp,  and  Feast,  and  Revelry, 

With  Mask,  and  antique  Pageantry, 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream, 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Johnson's  learned  sock  be  on, 

Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever  against  eating  cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 

Married  to  immortal  verse, 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 

In  notes  of  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 

That  Orpheus  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights,  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


72  MILTON. 


IL  PENSEROSO. 


Hence  vain  deluding  Joys, 
The  brood  of  Folly,  without  father  bred, 

How  little  you  bested, 
Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys  1 

Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 
And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 

As  thick  and  numberless 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams  ; 

Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 
The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 

But  hail,  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy, 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view, 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue  ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem; 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended  : 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended, 
Thee  bright  haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore  ; 
His  daughter  she,  (in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain,) 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 


MILTON.  78 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 
Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing  witli  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  Cyprus  lawn, 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step  and  musing  gait ; 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  ; 
There  held  in  holy  passion,  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast, 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast : 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet, 
Spare  Fast  that  oft  with  Gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing  : 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure ; 
But  first  and  chiefest  with  thee  bring, 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 
The  cherub  Contemplation  ; 
And  the  mute  silence  hist  along, 
'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song. 
In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke, 
Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak  ; 
? 


4  MILTON 

Sweet  bird  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among, 

I  woo  to  hear  thy  evening  song ; 

And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth  shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way ; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft  on  a  p. at  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far  off  curfew  sound, 

Over  some  wide  watered  shore, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar  ; 

Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm, 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour, 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 

Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear, 

With  thrice  great  Hermes,  or  un'sphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold. 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshlv  nook ; 


M  I  L  T  O  N  .  75 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes'  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine, 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age, 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 
But  O,  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower, 
Or  "bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  Love  did  seek. 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 
That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass, 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride ; 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  tourneys  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests  aftid  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 
Thus  night  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  silver-suited  morn  appear ; 
Not  trickt  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont, 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 


76  MILTON 

Put  kerchiefed  in  a  comely  cloud, 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 

When  the  gust  hath  Mown  his  fill, 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 

And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  pine  or  monumental  oak, 

Where  the  rude"  axe  with  heaved  stroke, 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  Day's  parish  eye, 

While  the  bee  with  honied  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  concert  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  sleep  : 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid. 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 


MILTON.  77 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 

With  antique  pillars,  massy  proof; 

And  storied  windows,  richly  dight, 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light ; 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below, 

In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness  through  mine  ear 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstacies, 

And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may,  at  last,  my  weary  age, 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 

The  hairy  gown,  and  mossy  cell, 

Where  I  may  sit,  and  rightly  spell 

Of  every  star  that  Heaven  doth  shew, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew  ; 

Till  old  Experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


78  MIL  T  o  w 


LYCIDAS. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  Laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  Myrtles  brown,  with  Ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries,  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  ; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime ; 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?     He  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watry  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  tlie  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse, 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn ; 
And,  as  she  passes,  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 
For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill. 

Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray  fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night* 


M  ILTON  /9 

Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 

Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  hiswest'ring  wheel. 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 

Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute  ; 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel, 

Fnm  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long, 

And  old  Damrctas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  O  the  heavy  change !  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thoi  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  tliime  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weaning  herds  that  graze ; 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows  ; 
SuchLycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  1 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 
Ah  me  !  I  fondly  dream  ! 

Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself,  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 


80  MILTON. 

His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shepherd's  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
(  r  with  the  tangles  ofNea?ra's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days  ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
(  omes  the  blind  Fury  with  th'  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     •  But  not  the  praise,' 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears  ; 
Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil, 

Set  off*  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies  ; 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  Heaven  expect  thy  meed. 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honoured  flood, 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood  : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea  ; 
He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain  t 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  winds, 


MILTON.  81 

That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory : 

They  knew  not  of  his  story  ; 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 

That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed, 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 

Built  in  th'  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 

That  sank  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  wo. 
Ah  !  who  hath  reft  (quoth  he)  my  dearest  pledge  ? 

Last  came,  and  last  ^id  go, 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake ; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain, 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain) 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake  : 
How  well  could  I  have  spar'd  for  thee,  young  swain, 
Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ? 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make, 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'"  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy,  bidden  guest ; 
Blind  mouths !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  ought  else  the  least, 
That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs ; 
What  recks  it  them?  What  need  they  1  They  are  sp«d  ; 
And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw  : 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 


82  M 1 L f OS . 

But,  swoln  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  : 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw, 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said, 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more. 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past, 
That  shrunk  thy  streams  ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 
That  on  the  green-turf  suck  the  honied  showers, 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rath  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well  attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan,  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears  : 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 
To  strew  the  Laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For,  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 
Ah  me  !  Whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 
Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled, 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Where  thou  perhaps,  under  fhe  whelming  tide 


MILTON.  83 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world  ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount, 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold  ; 

Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth  ; 

And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woful  shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor  ; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  misrht  of  Him  that  walked  the  waves 
Where  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  th'  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 
That  sing,  and,  singing  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more  ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood 


84  MILTON 


FROM  COMUS. 

Lady.     This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true, 

My  best  guide  now ;  melhought  it  was  the  sound 

Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment, 

Such  as  the  jocund  flute,  or  gamesome  pipe, 

Stirs  up  among  the  loose  unlettered  hinds, 

When  for  their  teeming  flocks  and  granges  full, 

In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan, 

And  thank  the  Gods  amiss.     I  should  be  loth 

To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swilled  insolence 

Of  such  late  wassailers ;  yet  oh,  where  else 

Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet, 

In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood  ? 

My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 

With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge 

Under  the  spreading  favour  of  these  pines, 

Slept,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket  side, 

To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 

As  the  kind  hospitable  woods  provide. 

They  left  me  then,  when  the  gray-hooded  even, 

Like  a  sad  votarist  in  Palmer's  weed, 

Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus'  wain. 

But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back, 

Is  now  the  labour  of  my  thoughts  ;  'tis  likeliest 

They  had  engaged  their  wandering  steps  too  far, 

And  envious  darkness,  e'er  they  could  return, 

Had  stole  them  from  me  ;  else,  O  thievish  night, 

Why  shouldst  thou,  but  for  some  felonious  end, 

In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars, 

That  nature  hung  in  Heaven,  and  filled  their  lamps 


MILTON.  85 

With  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 
To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveller  ? 
This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may  guess, 
Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 
Was  rife  and  perfect  in  my  listening  ear ; 
Yet  nought  but  single  da-kness  do  I  find. 
What  might  this  be  1     A  thousand  fantasies 
Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory, 
Of  calling  shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows  dire, 
And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names 
On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wildernesses. 
These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound 
The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 
By  a  strong  siding  champion,  Conscience. 

0  welcome  pure-eyed  Faith,  white-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hovering  angel,  girt  with  golden  wings  ; 
And  thou,  unblemished  form  of  Chastity, 

1  see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  he,  the  Supreme  Good,  t'whom  all  things  ill 

Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 

Would  send  a  glist'ring  guardian,  if  need  were, 

To  keep  my  life  and  honour  unassailed. 

Was  I  deceived,  or  did  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night  1 

I  did  not  err,  there  does  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night, 

And  cast  a  gleam  over  this  tufted  grove. 

I  cannot  halloo  to  my  brothers,  but 

Such  noise  as  I  can  make  to  be  heard  farthest 

I'll  venture  ;  for  my  new  enlivened  spirits 

Prompt  me  ;  and  they  perhaps  are  not  far  off". 

Lady  sings 
8 


86  M  ILTON 


SONG 


Sweet  echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen 
Within  thy  airy  shell, 
By  slow  Meander's  m argent  green, 
And  in  the  violet  embroidered  vale, 
Where  the  love-lorn  nighingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well ; 
Canst  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are  1 

Oh  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 
Tell  me  but  where, 
Sweet  Queen  of  parly,  daughter  of  the  sphere, 
So  may'st  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Heaven's  hwmonie*. 

Comus.  Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould. 

Breathe  such  divine,  enchanting  ravishment ; 

Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 

And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 

To  testify  his  hidden  residence  : 

How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 

Of  silence,  through  the  empty  vaulted  night, 

At  every  fall,  smoothing  the  raven  down 

Of  darkness  till  it  smiled  !     I  have  oft  heard 

My  mother  Circe,  with  the  Syrens  three, 

Amidst  the  flow'ry-kirtled  Naiades, 

Culling  their  potent  herbs  and  baleful  drugs, 

Who  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prisoned  soul 

And  lap  it  in  Elysium  ;  Scylla  wept, 


MILTON.  87 

And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention, 
And  fell  Charybdis  murmured  soft  applause, 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lulled  the  sense, 
And  in  sweet  madness  robbed  it  of  itself; 
But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  heard  till  now.     I'll  speak  to  her, 
A  nd  she  shall  be  my  queen. 


SONNETS. 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he,  returning,  chide  : 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied  V* 
I  fondly  ask  :  but  Patience  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  '  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts  ;  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best :  his  state 

Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  pass  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve,  who  only  stand  and  wait.' 


88  MILTON 

ON  HIS  DECEASED  WIFE. 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave, 
Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad  husband  gave, 
Rescued  from  death  by  force,  though  pale  and  faint 

Mine,  as  whom  washed  from  spot  of  childbed  taint 
Purification  in  the  old  law  did  save ; 
And  such  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 
Full  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  restraint, 

Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  mind  : 
Her  face  was  veiled,  yet  to  my  fancied  sight, 
Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  person  shined 

So  clear,  as  in  her  face  with  more  delight ; 
But  O,  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 
I  waked,  she  fled,  and  day  brought  back  my  night. 

ON  THE  MASSACRE  IN  PIEDMONT. 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold  ; 
Even  them   who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones, 

Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     The  moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 

The  triple  tyrant ;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred  fold,  who,  having  learned  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  wo. 


MILTON.  89 


TO  MR.  LAWRENCE. 


Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father,  virtuous  sou, 

Now  that  the  fields  are  dank,  and  ways  are  mire, 
Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  fire 
Help  waste  a  sullen  day,  what  may  be  won 

From  the  hard  season  gaining?     Time  will  run 
On  smoother  till  Favonius  re-inspire 
The  frozen  earth,  and  clothe  in  fresh  attire 
The  lily  and  rose  that  neither  sowed  nor  spun. 

What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice 
Of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,  whence  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touched,  or  artful  voice 

Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air ; 

He  who  of  these  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise.. 

TO  CYRIAC  SKINNER. 

Cyriac,  whose  grandsire,  on  the  royal  bench 
Of  British  Themis,  with  no  mean  applause 
Pronounced,  and  in  his  volumes  taught,  our  laws, 
Which  others  at  their  bar  so  often  wrench  : 

To-day  deep  thoughts  resolve  with  me  to  drench 
In  mirth  that,  after,  no  repenting  draws  ; 
Let  Euclid  rest,  and  Archimedes  pause, 
And  what  the  Swede  intends,  and  what  the  French! 

To  measure  life  learn  thou  betimes,  and  know 
Toward  solid  good  what  leads  the  nearest  way  ; 
For  other  things  mild  Heaven  a  time  ordains, 

And  disapproves  that  care,  though  wise  in  show, 
That  when  superfluous  burden  loads  the  day, 
And,  when  God  sends  a  cheerful  hour,  refrains. 
8* 


90  MILTON. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Cyriac,  this  three-years-day,  these  eyes,  though  clear, 
To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 
Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot ; 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 

Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the  year, 
Or  man,  or  woman.     Yet  I  argue  not 
Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope  ;  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 

Right  onward.     What  supports  me,  dost  thou  ask  1 
The  conscience,  Friend,  to  have  lost  them  overplied 
In  liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task, 

Of  which  all  Europe  rings  from  side  to  side. 

This  thought  might  lead  me  thro' the  world's  vain  mask 
Content,  though  blind,  had  I  no  better  guide. 

WHEN  THE  ASSAULT  WAS  INTENDED  TO  THE  CITY. 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  arms, 

Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors  may  seize, 

If  deed  of  honour  did  thee  ever  please, 

Guard  them,  and  him  within  protect  from  harms 

He  can  requite  thee  ;  for  he  knows  the  charms 
That  call  Fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these, 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands  and  seas, 
Whatever  clime  the  sun's  bright  circle  warms. 

Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower : 
The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 
The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 

Went  to  the  ground  ;  and  the  repeated  air 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 
To  save  th'  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 


DRYDEN. 


VENI  CREATOR 


Creator  Spirit   by  whose  aid 
The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid» 
Come  visit  every  pious  mind  ; 
Come  pour  thy  joys  on  human  kind  ; 
From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free, 
And  make  thy  temples  worthy  thee. 

O,  source  of  uncreated  light, 
The  Father's  promised  Paraclete! 
Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire, 
Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire 
Come,  and  thy  sacred  unction  bring 
To  sanctify  us  while  we  sing. 

Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high, 
Rich  in  thy  sevenfold  energy  ! 
Thou  strength  of  his  Almighty  hand, 
Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command. 
Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence, 
Who  dost  the  gift  of  tongues  dispense, 
And  crownst  thy  gift  with  eloquence  1 


92  DRYDEN. 

Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts : 
But,  oh,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts  ! 
Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control, 
Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul; 
And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown, 
Then  lay  thy  hand,  and  hold  them  down. 

Chase  from  our  minds  th'  infernal  foe, 
And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow  ; 
And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 
Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive, 
And  practice  all  that  we  believe  : 
Give  us  thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father,  and  the  Son,  by  thee. 

Immortal  honour,  endles*  fan:-1 
Attend  th'  Almighty  Father's  i..«uk 
The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified. 
Who  for  lost  man's  redemption  4u  * 
And  equal  adoration  be, 
Eternal  Paraclete,  to  thee! 


POPE. 


MESSIAH. 


Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma!  begin  the  song  : 
To  heavenly  themes  sublimer  strains  belong. 
The  mossy  fountains  and  the  sylvan  shades, 
The  dreams  of  Pindus  and  the  Aonian  maids, 
Delight  no  more.     O  Thou  my  voice  inspire, 
Who  touched  Isaiah's  hallowed  lips  with  fire  ! 

Rapt  into  future  times,  the  bard  begun  ; 
A  Virgin  shall  conceive,  a  Virgin  bear  a  son ! 
From  Jesse's  root  behold  a  branch  arise, 
Whose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance  fills  the  skies: 
The  ethereal  Spirit  o'er  its  leaves  shall  move, 
And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  dove. 
Ye  heavens  !  from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour, 
And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly  shower! 
The  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall  aid, 
From  storms  a  shelter,  and  from  heat  a  shade. 
All  crimes  shall  cease,  and  ancient  frauds  shall  fail  ; 
Returning  Justice  lift  aloft  her  scale  : 
Peace  o'er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend, 
And  white-robed  Innocence  from  heaven  descend. 


9*  POPE. 

Swift  fly  the  years,  and  rise  the  expected  morn ; 
Oh,  spring  to  light,  auspicious  Babe,  be  born ! 
See,  Nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreaths  to  bring, 
With  all  the  incense  of  the  breathing  Spring: 
See  lofty  Lebanon  his  head  advance, 
See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains  dance  : 
See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Sharon  rise, 
And  Carmel's  flowery  top  perfumes  the  skies  ! 
Hark !  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers  ; 
Prepare  the  way  !  A  God,  a  God  appears  ! 
A  God,  a  God  !  the  vocal  hills  reply  ; 
The  rocks  proclaim  the  approaching  Deity. 
Lo,  earth  receives  him  from  the  bending  skies  ! 
Sink  down,  ye  mountains  ;    and  ye  valleys,  rise ! 
With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars,  homage  pay  ! 
Be  smooth,  ye  rocks  ;  ye  rapid  floods,  give  way  ! 
The  Saviour  comes  !  by  ancient  bards  foretold  ; 
Hear  him,  ye  deaf;  and  all  ye  blind,  behold. 
He  from  thick  film  shall  purge  the  visual  ray, 
And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the  day  : 
'Tis  he  the  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall  clear, 
And  bid  new  music  charm  the  unfolding  ear : 
The  dumb  shall  sing,  the  lame  his  crutch  forego, 
And  leap  exulting,  like  the  bounding  roe. 
No  sigh,  no  murmur,  the  wide  world  shall  hear; 
From  every  face  he  wipes  off  every  tear. 
In  adamantine  chains  shall  death  be  bound, 
And  hell's  grim  tyrant  feel  the  eternal  wound. 
As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 
Seeks  freshest  pasture,  and  the  purest  air; 
Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  directs, 
By  day  o'ersees  them,  and  bv  night  protects ; 


pope  95 

The  tender  lambs  he  raises  in  his  arms, 

Feeds  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  bosom  warms : 

Thus  shall  mankind  his  guardian  care  engage, 

The  promised  father  of  the  future  age. 

No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 

Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes, 

Nor  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  covered  o'er, 

The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more  ; 

But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 

And  the  broad  falchion  in  a  ploughshare  end. 

Then  palaces  shall  rise  ;  the  joyful  son 

Shall  finish  what  his  short-liv'd  sire  begun  ; 

Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield, 

And  the  same  hand  that  sowed  shall  reap  the  field  ; 

The  swain  in  barren  deserts  with  surprise 

Sees  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise  ; 

And  starts  among  the  thirsty  wilds  to  hear 

New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 

On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon's  late  abodes, 

The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush  nods. 

Waste,  sandy  valleys,  once  perplexed  with  thorn, 

The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn  : 

To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowery  palm  succeed, 

And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 

The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant  mead, 

And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  ti^er  lead. 

The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet, 

And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim's  feet. 

The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 

The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake, 

Pleased,  the  green  lustre  of  the  scales  survey, 

And  with  their  forky  tongues  shall  innocently  play. 


06  l' OPE. 

Rise,  crowned  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise  ! 

Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thine  eyes  ! 

See  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn  ; 

See  future  sons,  and  daughters  yet  unborn, 

In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise, 

Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies! 

See  barbarous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend, 

Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend: 

See  thy  bright  altars  thronged  with  prostrate  kings?, 

And  heaped  with  products  of  Sabean  springs  ! 

For  thee  Idumea's  spicy  forests  blow, 

And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir's  mountains  glow. 

See  heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display, 

And  break  upon  thee  in  a  flood  of  day  ! 

No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  morn, 

Nor  evening  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn  ; 

But  lost,  dissolved  in  thy  superior  rays, 

One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze, 

O'erflow  thy  courts :  the  Light  himself  shall  shine 

Revealed,  and  God's  eternal  day  be  thine  ! 

The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke  decay, 

Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away  ; 

But  fixed  his  word,  his  saving  power  remains  ; 

Thy  realm  for  ever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah  reigns    . 


pope.  97 


FROM  "  THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK  " 

Nor  with  more  glories,  in  the  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main, 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 
Fair  nymphs,  and  well-dressed  youth  around  her  shone 
But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 

On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  Infidels  adore, 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those : 
Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends : 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet,  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide  : 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  them  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind, 
Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  swooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chair  s. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray, 
Slight  linos  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey, 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  insnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 
9 


98  pope 


FROM  THE  "  ELEGY." 

As  into  air  the  purest  spirits  flow, 
And  separate  from  their  kindred  dregs  below; 
So  flew  thy  soul  to  its  congenial  place, 
Nor  left  one  virtue  to  redeem  thy  race. 

But  thou,  false  guardian  of  a  charge  too  good, 
Thou  mean  deserter  of  thy  brother's  blood  ! 
See  on  these  ruby  lips  the  trembling  breast, 
These  cheeks  now  fading  at  the  blast  of  death  ; 
Cold  is  that  breath  which  warmed  the  world  before, 
And  those  love-darting  eyes  must  roll  no  more. 
Thus,  if  eternal  justice  rules  the  ball, 
Thus  shall  your  wives,  and  thus  your  children  fall ; 
On  all  the  line  a  sudden  vengeance  waits, 
And  frequent  hearses  shall  besiege  your  gates  ; 
There  passengers  shall  stand,  and  pointing  say, 
(While  the  long  funerals  blacken  all  the  way,) 
Lo  !  these  were  they  whose  souls  the  furies  steeled, 
And  cursed  with  hearts  unknowing  how  to  yield. 
Thus  unlamented  pass  the  proud  away, 
The  gaze  of  fools,  and  pageant  of  a  day  ! 
So  perish  all,  whose  breasts  ne'er  learned  to  glow 
For  others'  good,  or  melt  at  others'  wo. 

What  can  atone,  oh,  ever  injured  shade, 
Thy  fate  unpitied,  and  thy  rites  unpaid  ? 
No  friend's  complaint,  no  kind  domestic  tear, 
Pleased  thy  pale  ghost,  or  graced  thy  mournful  bien 
By  foreign  hands  thy  dying  eyes  were  closed  ; 
By  foreign  hands  thy  decent  limbs  composed  ; 


pope.  99 

By  foreign  hands  thy  humble  grave  adorned, 
By  strangers  honoured,  and  by  strangers  mourned. 
What  though  no  friends  in  sable  weeds  appear, 
Grieve  for  an  hour,  perhaps,  then  mourn  a  year, 
And  bear  about  the  mockery  of  wo, 
To  midnight  dances,  and  the  public  show"? 
What  though  no  weeping  loves  thy  ashes  grace, 
Nor  polished  marble  emulate  thy  face  1 
What  though  no  sacred  earth  allow  thee  room, 
Nor  hallowed  dirge  be  muttered  o'er  thy  tomb  1 
Yet  shall  thy  grave  with  rising  flowers  be  drest, 
And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast : 
There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  bestow, 
There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow  ; 
While  angels  with  their  silver  wings  o'ershade 
The  ground,  now  sacred  by  thy  relics  made. 

So  peaceful  rests,  without  a  stone,  a  name, 
What  once  had  beauty,  titles,  wealth,  and  fame. 
How  loved,  how  honoured  once,  avails  thee  not, 
To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot ; 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee, 
'Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be  ; 
Poets  themselves  must  fall  like  those  they  sung, 
Deaf  the  praised  ear,  and  mute  the  tuneful  tongue. 
Even  he,  whose  soul  now  melts  in  mournful  lays, 
Shall  shortly  want  the  generous  tear  he  pays; 
Then  from  his  closing  eyes  thy  form  shall  part, 
And  the  last  pang  shall  tear  thee  from  his  heart ; 
Life's  idle  business  at  one  gasp  be  o'er, 
The  muse  forgot,  and  thou  beloved  no  more, 


100  POPE. 


FROM  THE  "  EPISTLE  TO  DR.  ARBUTHNOT." 

'  Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John,'  fatigued  I  said  ; 
Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead  ! 
The  dog-star  rages  !  nay,  'tis  past  a  doubt, 
All  Bedlam  or  Parnassus  is  let  out : 
Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand, 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 
What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can  hide? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot  they  glide ; 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge, 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the  barge. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free, 
Even  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath-day  to  me  : 
Then  from  the  mint  walks  forth  the  man  of  rhyme, 
Happy  to  catch  me  just  at  dinner  time. 
Is  there  a  parson  much  be-mused  in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk,  fore-doomed  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza  when  he  should  engross  1 
Is  there  who,  locked  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his  darkened  walls  1 
All  fly  to  Twickenham,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the  laws, 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  damned  works  the  cause: 
Poor  Cornus  sees  his  frantic  wife  elope, 
And  curses  wit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope. 
Friend  to  my  life,  which  did  not  you  prolong, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song, 


POPE.  101 

What  dro^j  or  nostrum  can  this  plague  remove  ? 
Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love  t 

0  dire  dilemma !  either  way  I'm  sped  ; 

If  foes,  they  write ;  if  friends,  they  read  me  dead. 
Siezed  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  I ! 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie. 
To  laugh  were  want  of  goodness  and  of  grace, 
And  to  be  grave,  exceeds  all  power  of  face. 

1  sit  with  sad  civility,  I  read 

With  honest  anguish  and  an  aching  head, 
And  drop  at  last,  but  in  unwilling  ears, 
This  saving  counsel,  '  Keep  your  piece  nine  years.* 
'  Nine  years  !'  cries  he,  who,  high  in  Drury  Lane, 
Lulled  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  broken  pane. 
Rhymes  ere  he  wakes,  and  prints  before  term  ends, 
Obliged  by  hunger  and  request  of  friends  : 
'  The  piece  you  think  is  incorrect  1  why  take  it, 
I'm  all  submission,  what  you'd  have  it,  make  it.' 
Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  bound ; 
'  My  friendship,  and  a  prologue,  and  ten  pound.* 
Pitholeon  sends  to  me;  you  know  his  grace, 
I  want  a  patron  ;  ask  him  for  a  place. 
Pitholeon  libelled  me, — 'But  here's  a  letter 
Informs  you,  Sir,  'twas  when  he  knew  no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him  1     Curll  invites  to  dine  ! 
He'll  write  a  journal,  or  he'll  turn  divine.' 
Bless  me  !  a  packet. — '  'Tis  a  stranger  sues, 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orphan  muse. 
If  I  dislike  it, '  Furies,  death,  and  rage  ;' 
If  I  approve,  '  Commend  it  to  the  stage.' 
There  (thank  my  stars)  my  whole  commission  ends ; 
The  players  and  I  are,  luckily,  no  friends. 
9* 


102  pope. 

Fired  that  the  house  rejects  him,  'Sdeath,  I'll  print  it, 
And  shame  the  fools, — your  interest,  sir,  with  Lintot. 
Lintot,  dull  rogue,  will  think  your  price  too  much  ; 
*  Not,  sir,  if  you  revise  it  and  retouch.' 
All  my  demurs  but  double  his  attacks  ; 
At  last  he  whispers,  •  Do,  and  we  go  snacks.' 
Glad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the  door, 
Sir,  let  me  see  your  works  and  you  no  more  ! 

Why  did  I  write  ?     What  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  me  in  ink, — my  parents',  or  my  own  1 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came  : 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade, 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed  : 
The  Muse  but  served  to  ease  some  friend,  not  wi*> 
To  help  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life, 
To  second,  Arbuthnot !  thy  an  and  care, 
And  teach  the  being  you  presei  vd  to  bear. 


THOMSON. 


FROM  "THE  CASTLE  OP  INDOLENCE." 

In  lonely  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side, 
With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompassed  round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide, 
Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  no  where  found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground, 
And  there  a  season  atvveen  June  and  May, 
Half  prankt  with  spring,  with  summer  half  imbrowned 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say, 
No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  even  for  play. 

Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest, 
Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  between, 
And  flowery  beds  that  slumberous  influence  cast, 
From  poppies  breathed,  and  beds  of  pleasant  green, 
Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 
Meantime  unnumbered  glittering  streamlets  played, 
And  hurled  every  where  their  waters  sheen ; 
That  as  they  bickered  through  the  sunny  glade, 
Tho'  restless  still  themselves,  n  lulling  murmur  made. 


104  THOMSON. 

Joined  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills, 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale, 
And  flocks  loud  bleating  from  the  distant  hills, 
And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  ; 

%   And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would  wail, 
Or  stock-doves  plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale ; 
And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep : 

Yet  all  these  sounds  yblent  inclined  all  to  sleep. 


Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood  ; 
Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  were  seen  to  move, 
As  Idless  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood  : 
And  up  the  hills,  on  cither  side,  a  wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  ay  waving  to  and  fro, 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the  blood  ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out  below, 
The  murm'ring  main  was  heard, and  scarcelyheard  to  flow 


A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye  ; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky  : 
There  eke  the  soft  delights  that  witchingly 
Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast, 
And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hovered  nigh  ; 
But  whate'er  smacked  of  'noyance,  or  unrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious  nest. 


THOMSON.  105 

The  landscape  such,  inspiring  perfect  ease, 
Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard  hight) 
Close  hid  his  castle  'mid  embowering  trees, 
That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phoebus  bright, 
And  made  a  kind  of  chequered  day  and  night ; 
Meanwhile,  unceasing  at  the  massy  gate, 
Beneath  a  spacious  palm,  the  wicked  wight 
Was  placed  ;  and,  to  his  lute,  of  cruel  fate 
And  labour  harsh  complained,  lamenting  man's  estate. 


The  doors,  that  knew  no  shrill  alarming  beM, 
Ne  cursed  knocker,  plied  by  villain's  hand, 
Self-opened  into  halls,  where,  who  can  tell 
What  elegance  and  grandeur  wide  expand ; 
The  pride  of  Turkey  and  of  Persia  land  1 
Soft  quilts  on  quilts,  carpets  on  carpets  spread, 
And  couches  stretched  around  in  seemly  band 
And  endless  pillows  rise  to  prop  the  head ; 
So  that  each  spacious  room  was  one  full  swelling  bed. 


Each  sound  too  here  to  languishment  inclined, 
Lulled  the  weak  bosom,  and  induced  ease  : 
Aerial  music  in  the  warbling  wind, 
At  distance  rising  oft,  by  small  degrees, 
Nearer  and  nearer  came,  till  oe'r  the  trees 
It  hung,  and  breathed  such  soul-dissolving  airs, 
As  did,  alas  !  with  soft  perdition  please  : 
Entangled  deep  in  its  enchanting  snares, 
The  listening  heart  forgot  all  duties  and  all  cares. 


106  THOMSON. 

A  certain  music,  never  known  before, 
Here  lulled  the  pensive,  melancholy  mind 
Full  easily  obtained.     Behoves  no  more, 
But  sidelong,  to  the  gentle  waving  wind, 
To  lay  the  well  tuned  instrument  reclined  ; 
From  which,  with  airy  flying  fingers  light, 
Beyond  each  mortal  touch  the  most  refined, 
The  god  of  winds  drew  sounds  of  deep  delight : 
Whence,  with  just  cause,  the  harp  of  .<Eolus  it  hight 


Near  the  pavilions  where  we  slept,  still  ran, 
Soft  tinkling  streams,  and  dashing  waters  fell, 
And  sobbing  breezes  sighed,  and  oft  began 
(So  worked  the  wizard)  wintry  storms  to  swell, 
As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together  mell, 
At  doors  and  windows,  threatening,  seemed  to  call 
The  demons  of  the  tempest  growling  fell, 
Yet  the  least  entrance  found  they  none  at  all  ; 
Whence  sweeter  grew  our  sleep,  secure  in  massy  pall. 


And  hither  Morpheus  sent  his  kindest  dreams, 
Raising  a  world  of  gayer  tinct  and  grace  ; 
O'er  which  were  shadowy  cast  elysian  gleams, 
That  played,  in  waving  lights,  from  place  to  place, 
And  shed  a  roseate  smile  on  nature's  face, 
Not  Titian's  pencil  e'er  could  so  array, 
So  fleece  with  clouds  the  pure  ethereal  space  ; 
Ne  could  it  e'er  such  melting  forms  display, 
As  loose  on  flowery  beds  all  languishingly  lay. 


TUOA1SON  107 

SUMMER  IN  THE  TORRID  ZONE. 

There,  sublimed 
To  fearless  lust' of  blood,  the  savage  race 
Roam,  licensed  by  the  shading  hour  of  guilt 
And  foul  misdeed,  when  the  pure  day  has  shut 
His  sacred  eye.     The  tiger  darting  fierce 
Impetuous  on  the  prey  his  glance  has  doomed  : 
The  lively-shining  leopard,  speckled  oe'r 
With  many  a  spot,  the  beauty  of  the  waste  ; 
And,  scorning  all  the  taming  arts  of  man, 
The  keen  hyena,  fellest  of  the  fell. 
These,  rushing  from  the  inhospitable  woods 
Of  Mauritania,  or  the  tufted  isles, 
That  verdant  rise  amid  the  Lybian  wild, 
Innumerous  glare  around  their  shaggy  king, 
Majestic,  stalking  o'er  the  printed  sand  ; 
And,  with  imperious  and  repeated  roars, 
Demand  their  fated  food.     The  fearful  flocks 
Crowd  near  the  guardian  swain  ;  the  nobler  herds, 
Where  round  their  lordly  bull,  in  rural  ease, 
They  ruminating  lie,  with  horror  hear 
The  coming  rage.     The  awakened  village  starts  ; 
And  to  her  fluttering  breast  the  mother  strains 
Her  thoughtless  infant.     From  the  pirate's  den, 
Or  stern  Morocco's  tyrant  fang  escaped, 
The  wretch  half  wishes  for  his  bonds  again. 
While,  uproar  all,  the  wilderness  resounds, 
From  Atlas  eastward,  to  the  frighted  Nile. 

Unhappy  he  !  who,  from  the  first  of  joys, 
Society,  cut  off,  is  left  alone 


108  THOMSON. 

Amid  this  world  of  death.     Day  after  day, 
Sad,  on  the  jutting  eminence  he  sits, 
And  views  the  main  that  ever  toils  below  ; 
Still  fondly  forming  in  the  farthest  verge, 
Where  the  round  ether  mixes  with  the  wave, 
Ships,  dim-discovered,  dropping  from  the  clouds  : 
At  evening,  to  the  setting  sun  he  turns 
A  mournful  eye,  and  down  his  dying  heart 
Sinks  helpless. 

Nor  stop  the  terrors  of  these  regions  here. 
Commissioned  demons  oft,  angels  of  wrath, 
Let  loose  the  raging  elements.     Breathed  hot 
From  all  the  boundless  furnace  of  the  sky, 
And  the  wide  glittering  waste  of  burning  sand, 
A  suffocating  wind  the  piglrim  smites 
With  instant  death.     Patient  of,  thirst  and  toil, 
Son  of  the  desert !  even  the  camel  feels, 
Shot  through  his  withered  heart,  the  fiery  blast. 
Or  from  the  black-red  ether,  bursting  broad, 
Sallies  the  sudden  whirlwind.     Straight  the  sands, 
Conmoved  around,  in  gathering  eddies  play. 
Nearer  and  nearer  still  they  darkening  come  ; 
Till,  with  the  general  all-involving  storm 
Swept  up,  the  whole  continuous  wilds  arise, 
And  by  their  noon-day  fount  dejected  thrown, 
Or  sunk  at  night  in  sad  disastrous  sleep, 
Beneath  ascending  hills,  the  caravan 
Is  buried  deep.     In  Cairo's  crowded  streets 
The  impatient  merchant,  wondering,  waits  in  vain, 
And  Mecca  saddens  at  the  long  delay. 


THOMSON.  109 

DEATH  OF  THE  STAG. 

The  stag  too,  singled  from  the  herd,  where  long 
He  ranged,  the  branching  monarch  of  the  shade, 
Before  the  tempest  drives.     At  first,  in  speed 
He,  sprightly,  puts  his  faith  ;  and,  roused  by  fear, 
Gives  all  his  swift  aerial  soul  to  flight ; 
Against  the  breeze  he  darts,  that  way  the  more 
To  leave  the  lessening  murderous  cry  behind  : 
He  bursts  the  thickets,  glances  through  the  glades, 
And  plunges  deep  into  the  wildest  wood  : 
If  slow,  yet  sure,  adhesive  to  the  track, 
Hot-steaming,  up  behind  him  come  again 
The  inhuman  rout,  and  from  the  shady  depth 
Expel  him,  circling  through  his  every  shift. 
He  sweeps  the  forest  oft,  and  sobbing  sees 
The  glades,  mild  opening  to  the  golden  day  ; 
Where,  in  kind  contest,  with  his  butting  friends 
He  wont  to  struggle,  or  his  loves  enjoy. 
Oft  in  the  full-descending  flood  he  tries 
To  lose  the  scent,  and  lave  his  burning  sides  : 
Oft  seeks  the  herd  ;  the  watchful  herd,  alarmed, 
With  selfish  care  avoid  a  brother's  wo. 
What  shall  he  do  1     His  once  so  vivid  nerves, 
So  full  of  buoyant  spirits,  now  no  more 
Inspire  the  course  ;  but  fainting  breathless  toil, 
Sick,  seizes  on  his  heart :  he  stands  at  bay  ; 
And  puts  his  last  weak  refuge  in  despair. 
The  big  round  tears  run  down  his  dappled  face  ; 
He  groans  in  anguish  ;  while  the  growling  pack, 
Blood-happy,  hang  at  his  fair  jutting  chest, 
And  mark  his  beauteous  chequered  sides  with  gore, 
10 


110  THOMSON. 


WINTER  SCENES. 


The  keener  tempests  rise  :  and  fuming  dun 
From  all  the  livid  east,  or  piercing  north, 
Thick  clouds  ascend  ;  in  whose  capacious  womb 
A  vapoury  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congealed. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along  ; 
And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathered  storm. 
Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening  shower  descends- 
At  first  thin  wavering  ;  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad,  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the  day 
With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white. 
'Tis  brightness  all  ;  save  where  the  new  snow  melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.     Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head  ;  and,  ere  the  languid  sun 
Faint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep  hid  and  chill, 
Is  one  wide  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  labourer-ox 
Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven, 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone, 
The  red-breast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields,  and  thorny  thickets,  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.     Half  afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats  ;  then,  brisk,  alights 


THOMSON.  Ill 

On  the  warm  hearth ;  then,  hopping  o'er  the  floor, 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is: 
Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 
Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.     The  hare, 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 
By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares,  and  dogs, 
And  more  unpitying  man,  the  garden  seeks, 
Urged  on  by  fearless  Want.     The  bleating  kind 
Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next  the  glistening  earth, 
"With  looks  of  dumb  despair ;  then,  sad  dispersed, 
Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow. 


As  thus  the  snows  arise  ;  and  foul,  and  fierce, 
All  winter  drives  along  the  darkened  air ; 
In  his  own  loose  revolving  fields,  the  swain 
Disastered  stands  :  sees  other  hills  ascend, 
Of  unknown  joyless  brow ;  and  other  scenes, 
Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless  plain  : 
Nor  finds  the  river,  nor  the  forest,  hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild  :  but  wanders  on 
From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and  more  astray; 
Impatient  flouncing  through  the  drifted  heaps, 
Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home  ;  the  thoughts  of  home 
Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  call  their  vigour  forth 
In  many  a  vain  attempt.     How  sinks  the  soul ! 
What  black  despair,  what  horror  fills  his  heart ! 
When  for  the  dusky  spot,  which  fancy  feigned 
His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the  snow 


112  THOMSON. 

He  meets  the  roughness  of"  the  middle  waste, 

Far  from  the  track,  and  blessed  abode  of  man ; 

While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast, 

And  every  tempest  howling  o'er  his  head, 

Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 

Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into  his  mind, 

Of  covered  pits,  unfathomably  deep, 

A  dire  descent !  beyond  the  power  of  frost ; 

Of  faithless  bogs  ;  of  precipices  huge, 

Smoothed  up  with  snow  ;  and,  what  is  land  unknown, 

What  water,  of  the  still  unfrozen  spring, 

In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake, 

Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the  bottom  boils. 

These  check  his  fearful  steps  ;  and  down  he  sinks 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift, 

Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of  death, 

Mixed  with  the  tender  anguish  Nature  shoots 

Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man, 

His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends  unseen. 

In  vain  for  him  the  officious  wife  prepares 

The  fire  fair-blazing,  and  the  vestment  warm  ; 

In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping  out 

Into  the  mingling  storm,  demand  their  sire, 

With  tears  of  artless  innocence.     Alas  ! 

Nor  wife,  nor  children,  more  shall  he  behold, 

Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.     On  every  nerve 

The  deadly  Winter  seizes  ;  shuts  up  sense  ; 

And,  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold, 

Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffened  corse, 

Stretched  out,  and  bleaching  in  the  northern  blast 


THOMSON.  118 


But  what  is  this  ?  our  infant  Winter  siuks, 
Divested  of  his  grandeur,  should  our  eye 
Astonished  shoot  into  the  frigid  zone  ; 
Where,  for  relentless  months,  continual  Night 
Holds,  o'er  the  glittering  waste  her  starry  reign. 
There,  through  the  prison  of  unbounded  wilds, 
Barred  by  the  hand  of  nature  from  escape, 
Wide  roams  the  Russian  exile.     Nought  around 
Strikes  his  sad  eye,  but  deserts  lost  in  snow ; 
And  heavy  loaded  groves  ;  and  solid  floods, 
That  stretch  athwart  the  solitary  vast 
Their  icy  horrors  to  the  frozen  main  ; 
And  cheerless  towns  far  distant,  never  blessed, 
Save  when  its  annual  course  the  caravan 
Bends  to  the  golden  coast  of  rich  Cathay, 
With  news  of  human  kind.     Yet  there  life  glows  ; 
Yet  cherished  there,  beneath  the  shining  waste, 
The  furry  nations  harbour;  tipt  with  jet, 
Fair  ermines,  spotless  as  the  snows  they  press  ; 
Sables  of  glossy  black;  and  dark  embrowned  ; 
Or  beauteous  freaked  with  many  a  mingled  hue, 
Thousands  besides,  the  costly  pride  of  courts. 
There,  warm  together  pressed,  the  trooping  deer, 
Sleep  on  the  new-fallen  snows  ;  and  scarce  his  head 
Raised  o'er  the  heapy  wreath,  the  branching  elk 
Lies  slumbering  sullen  in  the  white  abyss. 
The  ruthless  hunter  wants  nor  dogs  nor  toils, 
Nor  with  the  dread  of  sounding  bows  he  drives 
The  fearful  flying  race  ;  with  ponderous  clubs, 
As  weak  against  the  mountain  heaps  they  push 
Their  heating  breast  in  vain,  and  piteous  bray 
10* 


114  THOMSON. 

He  lays  them  quivering  ill  the  ensanguined  snows, 
And  with  loud  shouts  rejoicing  bears  them  home. 
There  through  the  piny  forest  half  absorped, 
Rough  tenant  of  these  shades,  the  shapeless  bear, 
With  dangling  ice  all  horrid,  stalks  forlorn  ; 
Slow-paced,  and  sourer  as  the  storms  increase, 
He  makes  his  bed  beneath  the  inclement  drift  ; 
And,  with  stern  patience,  scorning  weak  complaint, 
Hardens  his  heart  against  assailing  want. 


Still  pressing  on,  beyond  Tornea's  lake, 
And  Hecla  flaming  through  a  waste  of.  snow, 
And  farthest  Greenland,  to  the  pole  itself, 
Where,  failing  gradual,  life  at  length  goes  out, 
The  Muse  expands  her  solitary  flight ; 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  wild  stupendous  scene, 
Beholds  new  scenes  beneath  another  sky. 
Throned  in  his  palace  of  cerulean  ice, 
Here  Winter  holds  his  unrejoicing  court ; 
And  through  his  airy  hall  the  loud  misrule 
Of  driving  tempest  is  forever  heard  : 
Here  the  grim  tyrant  meditates  his  wrath  ; 
Here  arms  his  winds  with  all-subduing  frost ; 
Moulds  his  fierce  hail,  and  treasures  up  his  snows, 
With  which  he  now  oppresses  half  the  globe. 
Thence  winding  eastward  to  the  Tartar's  coast, 
She  sweeps  the  howling  margin  of  the  main ; 
Where  undissolving,  from  the  first  of  time, 
Snows  swell  on  snows,  amazing,  to  the  sky  ; 
And  icy  mountains,  high  on  mountains  piled, 


THOMSON.  115 

Seem  to  the  shivering  sailor  from  afar, 

Shapeless  and  white,  an  atmosphere  of  clouds. 

Projected  huge,  and  horrid  o'er  the  surge, 

Alps  frown  on  Alps  ;  or,  rushing  hideous  down, 

As  if  old  Chaos  was  again  returned, 

Wide  rend  the  deep,  and  shake  the  solid  pole. 

Ocean  itself  no  longer  can  resist 

The  binding  fury  ;  but  in  all  its  rage 

Of  tempest,  taken  by  the  boundless  frost, 

Is  many  a  fathom  to  the  bottom  chained, 

And  bid  to  roar  no  more :  a  bleak  expanse, 

Shagged  o'er  with  wavy  rocks,  cheerless,  and  void 

Of  every  life,  that  from  the  dreary  months 

Flies  conscious  southward.     Miserable  they  ! 

Who,  here  entangled  in  the  gathering  ice, 

Take  their  last  look  of  the  descending  sun  ; 

While  full  of  death,  and  fierce  with  tenfold  frost, 

The  long,  long  night,  incumbent  o'er  their  heads 

Falls  horrible.     Such  was  the  Briton's  fate, 

As  with  first  prow,  (what  have  not  Britons  dared  !) 

He  for  the  passage  sought,  attempted  since 

So  much  in  vain,  and  seeming  to  be  shut 

By  jealous  Nature  with  eternal  bars. 

In  these  fell  regions,  in  Arzina  caught, 

And  to  the  stony  deep  his  idle  ship 

Immediate  sealed,  he,  with  his  hapless  crew, 

Each  full  exerted  at  his  several  task, 

Froze  into  statues  ;  to  the  cordage  glued 

The  sailor,  and  the  pilot  to  the  helm. 


116  THOMSON 


TO  AMANDA. 

Come,  dear  Amanda,  quit  the  town, 

And  to  the  rural  hamlets  fly ; 
Behold  !  the  wintry  storms  are  gone: 

A  gentle  radiance  glads  the  sky. 

The  birds  awake,  the  flowers  appear, 
Earth  spreads  a  verdant  couch  for  thee  ; 

'Tis  joy  and  music  all  we  hear, 
'Tis  love  and  beauty  all  we  see. 

Come,  let  us  mark  the  gradual  spring, 
How  peeps  the  bud,  the  blossom  blows; 

'Till  Philomel  begins  to  sing, 

And  perfect  May  to  swell  the  rose. 

E'en  so  thy  rising  charms  improve, 

As  life's  warm  season  grows  more  bright; 

And  opening  to  the  sighs  of  love, 
Thy  beauties  glow  with  full  delight. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Unless  with  my  Amanda  bless'd, 

In  vain  I  twine  the  woodbine  bower ; 

Unless  to  deck  her  sweeter  breast, 
In  vain  I  rear  the  breathing  flower. 

Awaken'd  by  the  genial  year, 

In  vain  the  birds  around  me  sing; 

[u  vain  the  freshening  fields  appear  : — 
Without  my  love  there  is  no  spring. 


YOUNG 


MIDNIGHT 


Tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep  ! 

He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 

Where  Fortune  smiles ;  the  wretched  he  forsakes : 

Swift  on  his  downy  pinion  flies  from  wo, 

And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear. 

From  short  (as  usual)  and  disturbed  repose 
I  wake :  how  happy  they  who  wake  no  more ! 
Yet  that  were  vain,  if  dreams  infest  the  grave. 
I  wake,  emerging  from  a  sea  of  dreams 
Tumultuous  ;  where  my  wrecked  desponding  thought, 
From  wave  to  wave  of  fancied  misery 
At  random  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost. 
Though  now  restored,  'tis  only  change  of  pain, 
(A  bitter  change  !)  severer  for  severe  : 
The  day  too  short  for  my  distress  ;  and  night, 
E'en  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain, 
Is  sunshine  to  the  colour  of  my  fate. 

Night,  sable  Goddess  !  from  her  ebon  throne, 
In  rayless  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  sceptre  o'er  a  slumbering  world. 


118  VOUNG. 

Silence  how  dead  !  and  darkness  how  profound  ! 
Nor  eye,  nor  list'ning  ear,  an  object  finds  ; 
Creation  sleeps.     'Tis  as  the  general  pulse 
Of  life  stood  still,  and  Nature  made  a  pause ; 
An  awful  pause  !  prophetic  of  her  end. 
And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfilled : 
Fate  !  drop  the  curtain  ;   I  can  lose  no  more. 

Silence  and  darkness  !  solemn  sisters  !  twins 
From  ancient  Night,  who  nurse  the  tender  thought 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve, 
(That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man,) 
Assist  me  :    I  will  thank  you  in  the^  grave  ; 
The  grave,  your  kingdom  :  there  this  frame  shall  fall 
A  victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 
But  what  are  ye  ? — 

Thou,  who  didst  put  to  flight 
Primoeval  silence,  when  the  morning  star 
Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the  rising  ball : 
O  Thou  !  whose  word  from  solid  darkness  struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,  strike  wisdom  from  my  soul ; 
My  soul,  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust,  her  treasure, 
As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 
Through  this  opaque  of  nature  and  of  soul, 
This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray, 
To  lighten  and  to  cheer.     O  lead  my  mind, 
(A  mind  that  fain  would  wander  from  its  wo,) 
Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and  death, 
And  from  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  inspire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song ; 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason ;  my  best  will 
Teach  rectitude  ;  and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear : 


YOUNG.  119 

Nor  let  the  phial  of  thy  vengeance,  poured 
On  this  devoted  head,  be  poured  in  vain. 

The  bell  strikes  one.     We  take  no  note  of  time, 
But  from  its  loss  :   to  give  it  then  a  tongue 
Is  wise  in  man.     As  if  an  angel  spoke, 
I  feel  the  solemn  sound.     If  heard  aright, 
It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours. 
Where  are  they  1     With  the  years  beyond  the  flood. 
It  is  the  signal  that  demands  dispatch : 
How  much  is  to  be  done  ]     My  hopes  and  fears 
Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 
Look  down — on  what  ?     A  fathomless  abyss  ! 
A  dread  eternity !  How  surely  mine  ! 
And  can  eternity  belong  to  me, 
Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour  ? 
How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful  is  man  ! 
How  passing  wonder  He,  who  made  him  such  ! 
Who  centered  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes, 
From  different  natures  marvellously  mixed, 
Connexion  exquisite  of  distant  worlds  ! 
Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain  ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity  !  " 
A  beam  ethereal,  sullied,  and  absorpt ! 
Though  sullied  and  dishonoured,  still  divine-! 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute  ! 
An  heir  of  glory  !  a  frail  child  of  dust ! 
Helpless  immortal  !    insect  infinite  ! 
A  worm  !  a  God  ! — I  tremble  at  myself, 
And  in  myself  am  lost      At  home,  a  stranger, 
Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 
And  wondering  at  her  own.     How  reason  reels  ! 


120  YOUNG. 

O  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man ! 

Triumphantly  distressed  !     What  joy  !  what  dread  ! 

Alternately  transported  and  alarmed  ! 

What  can  preserve  my  life  !'  or  what  destroy  ! 

An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the  grave  ; 

Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 


PROCRASTINATION. 

Be  wise  to-day ;  'tis  madness  to  defer : 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead  ; 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  pushed  out  of  life  ! 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time  ; 
Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled, 
And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 
If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange? 
That  'tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  still. 
Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes  this  bears 
The  palm,  "  That  all  men  are  about  to  live," 
For  ever  on  the  brink  of  being  born  : 
All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 
They  one  day  shall  not  drivel,  and  their  pride 
On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  praise  ; 
At  least  their  own  ;   their  future  selves  applaua  < 
How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead  ! 
Time  lodged  in  their  own  hands  is  Folly's  vails  ; 
That  lodged  in  Fate's,  to  wisdom  they  consign  ; 
The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose,  they  postpone 
'Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool ; 
4.nd  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 


YOUNG.  121 

All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man, 

And  that  through  every  stage.     When  young,  indeed, 

In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 

Unanxious  for  ourselves,  and  only  wish, 

As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise 

At  thirty,  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ; 

Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan ; 

At  fifty  chides  his  infamous  delay, 

Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve  ; 

In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought 

Resolves,  and  re-resolves  ;  then  dies  the  same. 

And  why  1  because  he  thinks  himself  immortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves ; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  Fate 
Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden  dread  : 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air, 
Soon  close  ;  where,  past  the   haft,  no  trace  is  found. 
As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains, 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel, 
So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death  • 
Even  with  the  tender  tear  which  nature  sheds 
O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. 


II 


A  KEN  SIDE. 


FOR  A  STATUE  OF  CHAUCER,  AT  WOODSTOC  t. 


Such  was  old  Chaucer.     Such  the  placid  mien 

Of  him  who  first  with  harmony  informed 

The  language  of  our  fathers.     Here  he  dwelt 

For  many  a  cheerful  day.     These  ancient  walls 

Have  often  heard  him,  while!  his  legend  blithe 

He  sang  ;  of  love,  or  knighlhood,  or  the  wiles 

Of  homely  life  :  through  each  estate  and  age, 

The  fashions  and  the  follies  of  the  world, 

With  cunning  hand  pourtr  >  fing.     Though  perchance 

From  Blenheim's  towers,  <  >  stranger,  thou  art  come, 

Glowing  with  Churchill's  trophies  ;  yet  in  vain 

Dost  thou  applaud  them,  if  thy  breast  be  cold 

To  him,  this  other  hero  ;  who,  in  times 

Dark  and  untaught,  began  with  charming  verse 

To  tame  the  rudeness  of  his  native  land. 


AKENSIDE  123 


MOURNFUL  PLEASURES. 


Ask  the  faithful  youth, 
Why  the  cold  urn  of  her  whom  long  he  loved, 
So  often  fills  his  arms ;  so  often  draws 
His  lonely  footsteps  at  the  silent  hour, 
To  pay  the  mournful  tribute  of  his  tears? 
O  !  he  will  tell  thee  that  the  wealth  of  worlds 
Should  ne'er  seduce  his  bosom  to  forego 
That  sacred  hour,  when  stealing  from  the  noise 
Of  care  and  envy,  sweet  remembrance  soothes 
With  virtue's  kindest  looks  his  aching  breast 
And  turns  his  tears  to  rapture.     Ask  the  crowd 
Which  flies  impatient  from  the  village  walk, 
To  climb  the  neighbouring  cliff's,  when  far  below 
The  cruel  winds  have  hurled  upon  the  coast 
Some  helpless  bark  ;  while  sacred  pity  melts 
The  general  eye,  or  terror's  icy  hand 
Smites  their  distorted  limbs  and  horrent  hair, 
While  every  mother  closer  to  her  breast 
Catches  her  child,  and  pointing  where  the  waves 
Foam  through  the  shattered  vessel,  shrieks  aloud, 
As  some  poor  wretch  that  spreads  his  piteous  arms 
For  succour,  swallowed  by  the  roaring  surge, 
As  now  another,  dashed  against  the  rock, 
Drops  lifeless  down.     O,  deemest  thou  indeed 
No  kind  endearment  here  by  nature  given 
To  mutual  terror  and  compassion's  tears? 
No  sweetly  melting  softness  which  attracts, 
O'er  all  that  edge  of  pain,  the  social  powers, 
To  this  their  proper  action  and  their  end  1 


4*4  AKENSIDE. 


PLEASURES  OF  IMAGINATION. 

Oh  !  blest  of  heaven,  whom  not  the  languid  songs 
Of  luxury,  the  Syren  !  not  the  bribes 
Of  sordid  wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  honour  can  seduce  to  leave 
Those  ever  blooming  sweets,  which  from  the  store 
Of  nature  fair  imagination  culls 
To  charm  the  enlivened  soul !  What  though  not  all 
Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  heights 
Of  envied  life  ;  though  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state ; 
Yet  nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just, 
With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler  state, 
Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 
Will  deign  to  use  them.     His  the  city's  pomp, 
The  rural  honours  his.     Whate'er  adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch, 
The  breathing  marble  and  the  sculptured  gold 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim, 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him,  the  spring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds :  for  him,  the  hand 
Of  autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  Rke  the  morn, 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings ; 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk, 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.     Not  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  sun's  effulgence,  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 


AKENS1DE.  125 

Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 

Fresh  pleasure,  unreproved.     Nor  thence  partakes 

Fresh  pleasure  only ;  for  the  attentive  mind, 

By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 

Lecomes  herself  harmonious :  wont  so  oft 

I  n  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 

Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 

To  find  a  kindred  order,  to  exert 

Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair  inspired  delight :  her  tempered  powers 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 

A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 


FOR  A  MONUMENT  AT  RUNNYMEDE. 

Thou,  who  the  verdant  plain  doth  traverse  here, 
While  Thames  among  his  willows  from  thy  view 
Retires  ;  O  stranger,  stay  thee,  and  the  scene 
Around  contemplate  well.     This  is  the  place 
Where  England's  ancient  barons,  clad  in  arms, 
A  nd  stern  in  conquest,  from  their  tyrant  king 
(Then  rendered  tame)  did  challenge  and  secure 
The  charter  of  thy  freedom.     Pass  not  on, 
Till  thou  hast  blessed  their  memory,  and  paid 
Those  thanks  which  God  appointed  the  reward 
Of  public  virtue,  and  if  chance  thy  home 
Salute  thee  with  a  father's  honoured  name, 
Go,  call  thy  sons :  instruct  them  what  a  debt 
They  owe  their  ancestors ;  and  make  them  swear 
To  pay  it,  by  transmitting  down  entire 
Those  sacred  rights  to  which  themselves  were  born. 
11* 


126  AKENSIDE. 


FOR  A  STATUE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 

O  youths  and  virgins  :  O  declining  eld : 
O  pale  misfortune's  slaves  :  O  ye  who  dwell 
Unknown  with  humble  quiet ;  ye  who  wait 
In  courts,  or  fill  the  golden  seat  of  kings : 
O  sons  of  sport  and  pleasure :  O  thou  wretch 
That  weepest  for  jealous  love,  or  the  sore  wounds 
Of  conscious  guilt,  or  death's  rapacious  hand 
Which  left  thee  void  of  hope :  O  ye  who  roam 
In  exile ;  ye  who  through  the  embattled  field 
Seek  bright  renown  ;  or  who  for  nobler  palms 
Contend,  the  leaders  of  a  public  cause  ; 
Approach,  behold  this  marble.     Know  ye  not 
The  features  1  Hath  not  oft  his  faithful  tongue 
Told  you  the  fashion  of  your  own  estate, 
The  secrets  of  your  bosom  1  Here  then,  round 
His  monument  with  reverence  while  ye  stand, 
Say  to  each  other,  '  this  was  Shakespeare's  form ; 
Who  walked  in  every  path  of  human  life ; 
Felt  every  passion  :  and  to  all  mankind 
Doth  now,  will  ever,  that  experience  yield, 
Which  his  own  genius  only  could  acquire.* 


COLLINS 


1HE  PASSIOINS. 


When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young. 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung1, 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell, 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting  ; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  : 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round, 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  (for  madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 


1 28  COLLINS. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 
Even  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed  ;  his  eyes  on  fire, 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings  : 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair, 
Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled; 
solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

Hut  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail  I 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  echo  still,  through  all  the  song, 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close ; 
A.nd  Hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hai" 
And  longer  had  she  sung :  but,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose : 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down 

And,  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  wo ! 


COLLINS.  129 

And  ever  and  anon,  he  beat, 
The  doubling  drum,  with  furious  heat; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 
Her  soul  subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting  from 
his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fixed, 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state: 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed ; 

And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  called  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  up-raised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired ; 
And  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound  ; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole : 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  O  !  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew; 

Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  d.         id  thicket  rung, 


l30  COLLINS. 

The  hunter's  call,  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known. 

The  oak-crowned  Sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed  Queen, 
Satyrs  and  Sylvan  boys  were  seen, 
Peeping  forth  from  their  alleys  green  : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear  ; 

And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial ; 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed  : 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best : 
They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain, 

They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids, 

Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 
Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round  ; 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound  ; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O  Music  !  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid  ! 
Why  Goddess  1  why  to  us  denied, 
Lays't  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 
You  learned  an  all-commanding  power 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  Nymph  endeared, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 


COLLINS.  131 

Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime  ! 
Thy  wonders  in  that  godlike  age, 
Fill  thy  recording  Sister's  page — 
'Tis  said  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age ; 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound — 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease ; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece  : 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state  ! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate  ! 

EPITAPH. 

How  sieep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung  ; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 


132  COLLINS 


ODE  TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 
May  hope,  O  pensive  Eve,  to  soothe  thine  ear 

Like  thy  own  modest  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales  ; 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove,* 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed : 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat, 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  ; 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose  numbers  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit ; 

As  musing  slow  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding  star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  hours  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 


COLLINS.  133 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  pleasures  sweet 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene, 
Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 

That  from  the  mountain's  side 

Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim  discovered  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  ! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves ; 
Or  Winter  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes  ; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favourite  name  ! 
12 


134  COLLINS. 


DIRGE  IN  CYMBELINE. 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet,  of  earliest  bloom, 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear, 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove, 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen, 
No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew ! 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew  I 

The  redbreast  oft  at  evening  hours, 
Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 

With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flowers, 
To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds  and  beating  rain, 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell, 

Or  midst  the  chace  on  every  plain, 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell: 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed  ; 
Beloved,  till  life  can  charm  no  more  ; 
And  mourned,  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 


COLLINS.  135 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OP  THOMSON. 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies, 

Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing  wave ! 
The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise, 

To  deck  its  poet's  sylvan  grave. 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds, 

His  airy  harp  shall  now  be  laid, 
That  he  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds, 

May  love  through  life  the  soothing  shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger  here, 
And  while  its  sounds  at  distance  swell, 

Shall  sadly  seem  in  pity's  ear 

To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim's  knell. 

Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore, 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest, 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar, 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest ! 

And  oft  as  ease  and  health  retire, 

To  breezy  lawn  or  forest  deep, 
The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening  spire, 

And  mid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou  who  own'st  that  earthly  bed, 
Ah  !  what  will  every  dirge  avail ! 

Or  tears  which  love  and  pity  shed, 
That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding  sail ! 


136  COLLINS. 

Yet  lives  there  one  whose  heedless  eye 

Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glimmering  near  ? 

With  him,  sweet  bard  !  may  fancy  die, 
And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 

But  thou  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen  tide 
No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  attend, 

Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill's  side, 
Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried  friend  ! 

And  see  the  fairy  valleys  fade, 

Dun  night  has  veiled  the  solemn  view ! 

Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade, 
Meek  nature's  child,  again  adieu ! 

The  genial  meads,  assigned  to  bless 
Thy  life,  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom ! 

There  hinds  and  shepherd  girls  shall  dress 
With  simple  hands  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,  long  thy  stone  and  pointed  clay 
Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton's  eyes, 

Oh  !  vales,  and  wild  woods,  shall  he  say, 
In  yonder  grave  your  Druid  lies. 


GRAY. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A.  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homewards  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds. 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain, 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew  tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

12* 


138  GRAY. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

.  Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  : 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  harrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke . 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour. 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long  drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  notes  of  praise. 


GRAY.  139 

Can  storied  urn  and  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  t 

Can  honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid, 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstacy  the  living  lyre  : 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll, 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


Some  village  Hampden  that  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threat  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  evea, 


140  OKAY. 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind : 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride, 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse's  flame. 


Far  from  the  maddening  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learnt  to  stray  ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life, 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculptures  deckt, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years  spelt  by  th'  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 


GRAY  14t 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonoured  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  enquire  thy  fate : 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  we  have  seen  him.  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping  woful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  craz'd  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  'custom'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree, 

Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ; 


142  a  RAY. 

"  The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne, 
Approach  and  read,  for  thou  canst  read,  the  lay, 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown; 

Fair  science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  ; 

He  gave  to  misery,  all  he  had,  a  tear ; 

He  gain'd  from  heaven,  'twas  all  he  wish'd  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Nor  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose, 
The  bosom  of  his  father  and  his  God. 


OKAY.  143 


ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  ETON  COLLEGE 


Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  watery  glade, 
Where  grateful  science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade  ; 
And  ye  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among. 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way  ; 

Ah,  happy  hills,  ah  pleasing  shade, 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain, 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
And  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 


144  GRAY. 

Say,  father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race, 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green, 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave, 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  1 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthral  t 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent, 

Their  murmuring  labours  ply, 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty  ; 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign, 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry  ; 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  their's  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest ; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast : 
Their's  buxom  health,  of  rosy  hue  ; 
Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new; 

And  lively  cheer,  of  vigour  born  ; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 


GRAY.  145 


Alas !  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  victims  play  ! 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day  ; 
Yet  see  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  misfortune's  baleful  train. 
Ah  !  show  thein  where  in  ambush  stand, 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band, 

Ah !  tell  them  they  are  men ! 

These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  anger,  pallid  fear, 

And  shame  that  skulks  behind  ; 
Or  pining  love  shall  waste  their  youth, 
Or  jealousy  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart; 
And  envy  wan,  and  faded  care, 
Grim  visaged,  comfortless  despair, 

And  sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 
To  bitter  scorn  a  sacrifice, 

And  grinning  infamy. 
The  stings  of  falsehood,  those  shall  try, 
And  hard  unkindness'  altered  eye, 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow  ; 
And  keen  remorse,  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  madness  laughing  wild, 

Amidst  severest  wo. 

13 


146 


GKAY 


Lo,  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  grisly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
That  every  labouring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage  ; 
Lo,  poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand; 

And  slow  consuming  age. 

To  each  his  sufferings  ;  all  are  men, 

Condemned  alike  to  groan  : 
The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet  ah  !  why  should  they  know  their  fate  ? 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ; 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise — 
No  more  ; — where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 


GRAY.  147 


HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY. 


Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour, 

The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best ! 
Hound  in  thy  adamantine  chain, 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan, 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 


When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth, 
Virtue,  his  darling  child,  designed, 

To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth, 
And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 

Stern  rugged  nurse  ;  thy  rigid  lore 

With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore  ; 

What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know, 
And  from  her  own  she  learnt  to  melt  at  others*  woe. 


Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 

Self-pleasing  folly's  idle  brood, 
Wild  laughter,  noise,  and  thoughtless  joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go, 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe  ; 
By  vain  prosperity  received, 
I'o  her  they  vow  their  troth,  and  are  again  believed. 


148  GRAY. 

Wisdom  in  sable  garb  arrayed, 

Immersed  in  rapturous  tbought  profound, 
And  melancholy,  silent  maid, 

With  leaden  eye  that  loves  the  ground, 
Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend  : 
Warm  charity,  the  general  friend, 
With  justice,  to  herself  severe, 
And  pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly  pleasing  tear. 

Oh,  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head, 

Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chastening  hand  ! 

Not  in  thy  gorgon  terrors  clad, 

Not  circled  with  the  vengeful  band, 

As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen, 

With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mien, 

With  screaming  horror's  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  disease,  and  ghastly  poverty. 

Thy  form  benign,  O  goddess  wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart, 
Thy  philosophic  train  be  there, 

To  soften,  not  to  wound  the  heart. 
The  generous  spark  extinct  revive, 
Teach  me  to  love,  and  to  forgive, 
Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan, 
Wha*  others  are,  to  feel,  and  know  mysell  a  man. 


JOHNSON. 


FROM  "THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES. 


On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior's  pride, 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide; 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire, 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire  ; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 
Unconquered  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain, 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield, 
War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field  ; 
Behold  surrounding  kings  their  powers  combine, 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign ; 
Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms  in  vain  ; 
"  Think  nothing  gained,"  he  cries,  "  till  nought  remain, 
On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly, 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state, 
And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait ; 
13* 


150  JOHNSON. 

Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 
And  winter  barricades  the  realms  of  Frost ; 
He  comes ;  nor  want  nor  cold  his  course  delay, 
Hide,  blushmg  Glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day: 
The  vanquished  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands, 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands  ; 
Condemned  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait, 
While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  debate. 
But  did  not  chance  at  length  her  error  mend  ? 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end  ? 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound? 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground? 
— His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand  ; 
He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 


Where  then  shall  Hope  and  Fear  their  objects  fird  ? 
Must  dull  suspense  corrupt  the  stagnant  mind? 
Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate, 
Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate  ? 
Must  no  dis  ike  alarm,  no  wishes  rise, 
No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies  ? 
Inquirer,  cease  ;   petitions  yet  remain 
Which  Heaven  may  hear,  nor  deem  religion  vain. 
Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  voice, 
But  leave  to  Heaven  the  measure  and  the  choice. 
Safe  in  his  power  whose  eyes  discern  afar, 
The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  prayer ; 


JOHNSON.  151 

Implore  Viis  aid,  in  his  decisions  rest, 

Secure,  wtiate'er  he  gives,  he  gives  the  best. 

Yet,  when  tne  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires, 

And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires, 

Pour  forth  thy  fervours  for  a  healthful  mind, 

Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  resigned  ; 

For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man  can  fill ; 

For  patience,  sovereign  o'er  transmuted  ill; 

For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier  seat, 

Counts  death  kind  Nature's  signal  of  retreat : 

These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  Heaven  ordain, 

These  goods  he  grants,  who  grants  the  power  to  gain 

With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the  mind, 

Ind  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 


GOLDSMITH. 


FROM  "  THE  TRAVELLER-" 


Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow. 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po ; 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door  ; 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies  ; 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart,  untravelled,  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend  ; 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire ; 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair; 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crowned, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 


GOLDSMITH.  153 

Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care ; 
Impelled  with  steps  unceasing  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view  ; 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies  ; 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

E'n  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And,  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career, 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear : 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains,  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store,  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain? 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man  j 
And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendour  crowned, 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round  ; 
Ye  lakes,  where  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale ; 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale  ; 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine : 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine. 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er ; 


154  GOLDSMITH. 

Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 

Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still : 

Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 

Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  supplies : 

Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 

To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 

And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene,  to  find 

Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consigned, 

Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest, 

May  gather  bliss,  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  1 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own, 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease: 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands,  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind : 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 


Far  to  the  right,  where  Appennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends : 


GOLDSMITH.  155 

Its  uplands,  sloping,  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride ; 
While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops  between. 
With  memorable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 
Whatever  fruits  in  differing  climes  are  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracks  appear, 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die  ; 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 
While  seaborn  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand, 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign  ; 
Though  poor,  luxurious;  though  submissive,  vain; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling  ;  zealous,  yet  untrue  ; 
And  e'en  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 
For  wealth  was  theirs  :  not  far  removed  the  date, 
When  commerce  proudly  flourished  through  the  sta.o  ; 
At  her  command  the  palace  learnt  to  rise, 
Again  the  long-fallen  column  sought  the  skies ; 
The  canvass  glowed,  beyond  e'en  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teemed  with  human  form  ; 


156  GOLDSMITH. 

Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  northern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  displayed  her  sail ; 
While  nought  remained  of  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmanned,  and  lords  without  a  slave: 
And  late  the  nation  found,  with  fruitless  skill, 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride ; 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fallen  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  arrayed, 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade  ; 
Processions  formed  for  piety  and  love, 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 
By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled, 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child: 
Each  nobler  aim,  repressed  by  long  control, 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul : 
While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind : 
As  in  those  domes,  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defaced  by  time,  and  tottering  in  decay, 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed; 
And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile, 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul  turn  from  them,  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display; 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansions  tread, 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread. 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword  • 


GOLDSMITH.  1  i>7 

'No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 
But  winter,  lingering,  chills  the  lap  of  May; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm, 
Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feasts  though  small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head, 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed ; 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal, 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal : 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 
Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes  : 
With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 
Or  drives  his  venturous  ploughshare  to  the  steep ; 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  wajr; 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped, 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed  ; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze  ; 
While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board  : 
And  haply  too  some  pilgrim  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
And  even  those  hills  that  round  his  mansion  rise. 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies  : 
14 


158  GOLDSMITH. 

Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms  ; 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast ; 
So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assigned  ; 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confined  : 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few ; 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast, 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redressed. 
Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies  ; 
Unknown  to  them  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy  ; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame, 
Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame, 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 
Unquenched  by  want,  unfanned  by  strong  desire  ; 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year, 
In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow, 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low, 
For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son, 
Unaltered,  unimproved,  the  manners  run; 
And  love's  and  friendship's  finely  pointed  dart, 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 
Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 
May  sit,  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest: 


GOLDSMITH.  1 59 

But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 

Through  life's  more  cultured  walks,  and  charm  the  way. 

These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 

To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn  ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  p'<;ase 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire  ! 
Where  shady  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And,  freshened  from  the  wave,  the  zephyr  flew : 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch  faltering  still ; 
But  mocked  all  tune,  and  marred  the  dancer's  skill ; 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages:     Dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze ; 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skilled  in  jestic  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 
So  blessed  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display, 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away  : 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here  : 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts,  in  splendid  traffic,  round  the  land  : 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise  ; 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 


'60  GOLDSMITH. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise  ; 
For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  the  internal  strength  of  thought  ; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace  " 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year  : 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosomed  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow  ; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore : 
While  the  pent  ocean  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile  ; 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossomed  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around,  the  wave-subjected  soil, 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 


GOLDSMITH.  161 

Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 

And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 

Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 

With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 

Are  here  displayed.     Their  much-loved  wealth  imparts 

Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts ; 

But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear, 

E'en  liberty  itself  is  bartered  here. 

At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 

The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys. 

A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 

Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves, 

And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 

Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm, 

Heavens  !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old  ! 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold  ; 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow  : 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now  ! 

Fired  at  the  sound,  rny  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring  ; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighter  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes  glide, 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray  ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combined, 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind  ; 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great : 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  humankind  pass  by  ; 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashioned,  fresh  from  nature's  hand, 

14* 


162  GOLDSMITH. 

Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 

True  to  imagined  right,  above  control, 

While  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 

And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine,  the  blessings  pictured  here, 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear ; 
Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy, 
But,  foster'd  e'en  by  Freedom,  ills  annoy  ; 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie  ; 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, 
All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown  ; 
Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repelled  ; 
Ferments  arise,  imprisoned  factions  roar, 
Repressed  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore ; 
Till,  overwrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motion  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown  ; 
Till  time  may  come,  when,  stripped  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toiled,  and  poets  wrote,  for  fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonoured  die. 


GOLDSMITH.  163 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind. 
Why  have  I  strayed  from  pleasure  and  repose, 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure* 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure ; 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consigned, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find  ; 
With  secret  course  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy ; 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damien's  bed  of  steel, 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our  own. 


164  GOLDSMITH 


FROM  "THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE." 

Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed; 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please ; 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighbouring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  ! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree  ! 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed  ; 
And' many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art,  and  feats  of  strength  went  round ; 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired. 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place  ; 


GOLDSMITH.  165 

The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove : 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like  these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please  ; 
These  round  thy  bovvers  their  cheerful  influence  sited, 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  Desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain  ; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way  ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries  ; 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall, 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay  : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made : 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man  ; 
For  him  light  Labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more  ; 


166 


GOLDSMITH, 


His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health  ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

Rnt  times  are  altered  ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumberous  pomp  repose ; 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn,  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks,  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose  ; 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw : 


GOLDSMITH. 

And,  as  a  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine. 
How  happy  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep  ; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend  ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound  when  oft  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  ; 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering  wi  id, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind  ; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 


168  GOLDSMITH. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
But  all  the  blooming  flush  of  life  is  fled  : 
All  but  yon  widowed  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashing  spring  ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced,  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn  ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  Ifts  heart  had  learnt  to  prize, 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain  ; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claim  allowed 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away ; 


GOLDSMITH.  169 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guest,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  wo  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all '. 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearme'nt  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
*  Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down,  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  gr?ce, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
Even  children  followed,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distrest ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  jjriefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
15 


170  GOLDSMITH. 

As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze,  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
1  he  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  iimn  revere  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  trim  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 
Full  well  they  laugned,  with  counterfeited  glee, 
A.t  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
FtiH  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  lie  frowned : 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault  ; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew  ; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cypher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  guage  : 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For  even  though  vanquished,  he  cojuld  argue  still ; 
iVhile  words  of  learned  length,  and  thundering  sound, 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
3ut  passed  u  all  his  fame  :  the  verv  spot, 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 


GOLDSMITH.  171 

Low  lies  that  house,  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  graybeard  mirth,  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place  ; 
The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day  ; 
The  pictures,  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose  ; 
The  hearth,  except  wheu  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay ; 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours !  could  not  all 
Retrieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall ! 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart. 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found, 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 
Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train, 


172  GOLDSMITH. 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play,' 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway ; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed, 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  the  shore ; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied  ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  : 


GOLDSMITH.  173 

While  thus  the  laud,  adorned  for  pleasure  all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes  ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are  frail, 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  : 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betrayed, 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed  ; 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 
While,  scourged  by  famine,  from  the  smiling  land 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  : 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah !  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there  1 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share : 
To  see  ten  thousand  baleful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know, 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  wo. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  ; 
15* 


174  GOLDSMITH. 

Here,  while  the  proud  their  long  dra^n  pomp  display, 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  besid«  the  way ; 

The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 

Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? — Ah  !  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies : 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blessed, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn  ; 

Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled. 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head., 

And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  tUi  shower 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  ho»>»- 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brow^ ' 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  lovelies*-      \xut 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  1 
E'n  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  brfead  ! 
Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  g< 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  wo. 
i  Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  dav  ; 


GOLDSMITH.  175 

Those  matted  woods,  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around : 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they  ; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies  : 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  heaven  !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  day, 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away  ; 
When  the  poor  exiles  every  pleasure  passed, 
Hung  round  their  bovvers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last; 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  wo  j 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose ; 


176  GOLDSMITH. 

And  kissed  her  thoughtless  bahes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief, 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  jrrief. 

O  Luxury  !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own  ; 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  wo ; 
Till  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done  ; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness  are  there  ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame  ; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride  ; 


GOLDSMITH.  177 

Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep^stme  so; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ; 
Farewell !  and  O  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clime, 
Aid  slighted  Truth,  with  thy  persuasive  strain  ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possessed. 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blessed ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  laboured  mole  away  ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


BRUCE. 


FROM   "  AN  ELEGY." 


Now  Spring  returns  ;  but  not  to  me  returns 
The  vernal  joy  my  better  years  have  known ; 

Dim  in  my  breast  life's  dying  taper  burns, 
And  all  the  joys  of  life  with  health  are  flown. 

Starting  and  shivering  in  th'  inconstant  wind, 
Meagre  and  pale,  the  ghost  of  what  I  was, 

Beneath  some  blasted  tree  I  lie  reclined, 

And  count  the  silent  moments  as  they  pass  : 

The  winged  moments,  whose  unstaying  speed 
No  art  can  stop,  or  in  their  course  arrest ; 

Whose  flight  shall  shortly  count  me  with  the  dead, 
And  lay  me  down  in  peace  with  them  that  rest 

Oft  morning  dreams  presage  approaching  fate  ; 

And  morning  dreams,  as  poets  tell,  are  true  ; 
Led  by  pale  ghosts,  I  enter  death's  dark  gate, 

And  bid  the  realms  of  li^ht  and  life  adieu. 


BRUCE.  179 

I  hear  the  helpless  wail,  the  shriek  of  wo  ; 

I  see  the  muddy  wave,  the  dreary  shore, 
The  sluggish  streams  that  slowly  creep  below, 

Which  mortals  visit  and  return  no  more. 

Farewell,  ye  blooming  fields  !  ye  cheerful  plains  ! 

Enough  for  me  the  churchyard's  lonely  mound, 
Where  Melancholy  with  still  Silence  reigns, 

And  the  rank  grass  waves  o'er  the  cheerless  ground. 

There  let  me  wander  at  the  shut  of  eve, 

When  s'eep  sits  dewy  on  the  labourer's  eyes  ; 

The  world  and  all  its  busy  follies  leave, 

And  talk  with  Wisdom  where  my  Daphnis  lies. 

There  let  me  sleep  forgotten  in  the  clay, 

When  death  shall  shut  these  weary  aching  eyes; 

Rest  in  the  hopes  of  an  eternal  day, 

Till  the  long  night  is  gone,  and  the  last  morn  arise. 


LOGAN. 


HYMN. 


Where  high  the  heavenly  temple  stands. 
The  house  of  God  not  made  with  hands, 
A  great  High  Priest  our  nature  wears, 
The  Patron  of  Mankind  appears. 

He  who  for  men  in  mercy  stood, 
And  poured  on  earth  his  precious  blood, 
Pursues  in  heaven  his  plan  of  grace, 
The  Guardian  God  of  human  race. 

Though  now  ascended  up  on  high, 
He  bends  on  earth  a  brother's  eye, 
Partaker  of  the  human  name, 
He  knows  the  frailty  of  our  frame 

Our  fellow-sufferer  yet  retains, 
A  fellow-feeling  of  our  pains  ; 
And  still  remembers  in  the  skies, 
His  tears,  and  agonies,  and  cries     . 


LOGAN.  191 

In  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart, 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  had  a  part ; 
He  sympathizes  in  our  grief, 
And  to  the  sufferer  sends  relief. 

With  boldness,  therefore,  at  the  throne, 
Let  us  make  all  our  sorrows  known, 
And  ask  the  aids  of  heavenly  power, 
To  help  us  in  the  evil  hour. 


SIR  WILLIAM  JOKES* 


AN  ODE. 


What  constitutes  a  State  ? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  laboured  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned ; 

Not  bays  and  broad-armed  ports, 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride  ; 

Not  starred  and  spangled  courts, 
Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No  ; — men,  high-minded  men, 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude ; 

Men,  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  maintain, 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 
And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain  : 

These  constitute  a  State, 
And  sovereign  Law,  that  Piute's  collected  will, 

O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate 


JONES. 

Sits  Empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill ; 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown 
The  fiend  dissension  like  a  vapour  sinks, 

And  e'en  th'  all  dazzling  crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

Such  was  thfs  heaven-loved  isle, 
Than  Lesbos  fairer  and  the  Cretan  shore  ! 

No  more  shall  Freedom  smile  ? 
Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more? 

Since  all  must  life  resign, 
Those  sweet  rewards  which  decorate  the  brave, 

'Tis  folly  to  decline, 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 


189 


BURN 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

My  loved,  ray  honoured,  much  respected  friend, 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end, 

My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise : 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scotish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene  ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways , 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  ; 
Ah !  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween. 


November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh ; 

The  shortening  winter-day  is  near  a  close 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh; 

The  blackening  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose  : 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 


BURNS.  185 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ; 
The  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flictherin  noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee-bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  toil. 


Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in, 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor-town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthful  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw  new  gown, 

Or  deposite  her  saii'-won  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 


Wi'  joy  unfeigned  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  other's  welfare  kindly  speers  : 
The  social  hours,  swift  winded,  unnoticed  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  unco  that  he  sees  and  hears  ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years  ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view  : 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears, 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new, 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 
16* 


186  BURNS). 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey  ; 
4  An'  mind  the  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 

An'  ne'er,  though  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play  ; 
An'  O,  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright 


But  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor-lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
'i  he  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek  ; 
With  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 

While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak  ;  [rake. 

Weel  pleased,  the  mother  hears,  its  nae  wild,  worthless 


Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 

A  strappan  youth  ;  lie  takes  the  mother's  eye  : 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi' joy, 

But  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashful  an'  sae  grave  ; 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  Jave. 


BURNS.  187 

O,  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O,  heartfelt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  rourd, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 
If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youtbful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other's  arms  breath  out  the  tender  tale,         [gale* 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  evening 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart — 

A  wretch  !  a  villain  !  lost  to  love  and  truth — 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 
Curse  on  his  perjured  arts  !  dissembling,  smooth  ! 

Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  1 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child  ? 
That  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild  1 


But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 

The  healsome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food; 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That,  yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood  : 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel  hained  hebbuck,  fell, 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  gude ; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 


1 88  BURNS. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha'  bible,  ance  his  father's  pride : 
His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside, 

Mis  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And,  *  Let  us  worship  God  !'  he  says,  with  solemn  aii 


They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise, 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  ; 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild,  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyr's,  worthy  of  the  name, 
Or  noble  Elgin  beats  the  heaven-ward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  ; 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame, 

The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise, 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 


The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high  ; 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny  ; 
Or,  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  heaven's  avenging  ire  ; 
Or,  Job's  pathetic  plaint  find  wailing  cry ; 

Or,  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 
Or,  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 


BURNS.  189 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed  ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head  ; 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped  ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land ; 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand  ; 
And   heard    great   Babylon's    doom    pronounced  by 
Heaven's  command. 


Then,  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  eternal  King 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband,  prays  : 
Hope  '  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,' 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  ; 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere 


Compared  with  this,  how  poor  religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 

Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  train,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 


190  BURNS. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way, 

The  youngling-cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent  pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  heaven  the  warm  request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
But,  chiefly,  in  their  heart  with  grace  divine  preside 


From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad : 
Princes  and  Lords  are  but  the  breath  of  Kings, 

4  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God  :' 
And,  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  ; 
What  is  the  lordling's  pomp  1  a  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined. 


O  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 
And,  O  !  may  heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent, 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much  loved  Isle. 


BURNS.  191 

O  Thou !  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide, 

That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart ' 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die — the  second  glorious  part ; 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward !) 
O  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY. 


Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou'st  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure, 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 


Alas  !  its  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet  ; 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
When  upward-springing,  blythe  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 


192  BURNS. 

Gauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north, 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth, 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 


The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield  ; 
But  thou  beneath  the  random-bield, 

O'  clod  or  stane  : 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble  field, 

Unseen,  alane. 


There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread  ; 
Thou  liftst  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise  ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies. 


Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust ; 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 


BURNS.  193 


Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred : 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card, 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er. 


Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven  ; 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven, 

To  misery's  brink ! 
Till  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  heaven, 

He,  ruined,  sink  ! 


Even  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date ; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom  ; 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom. 


194  BURNS. 


SONG. 

The  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast, 
Loud* roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast, 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 
I  see  it  driving  o'er  the  plain  ; 
The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor, 
The  scatter'd  coveys  meet  secure, 
While  here  I  wander,  prest  with  care. 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 


The  autumn  mourns  her  ripening  corn 
By  early  winter's  ravage  torn  ; 
Across  her  placid,  azure  sky, 
She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly  : 
Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave, 
I  think  upon  the  stormy  wave, 
Where  many  a  danger  I  must  dare, 
Far  from  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 


*Tis  not  the  surging  billow's  roar, 
'Tis  not  that  fatal  deadly  shore  ; 
Though  death  in  every  shape  appear, 
The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear : 
But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 
That  heart  transpierc'd  with  many  a  wound  , 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I  tear, 
To  leave  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 


BURNS.  195 

Farewell !  Old  Coila's  hills  i.nd  dales, 
Her  healthy  moors  and  winding  vales  ; 
The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves, 
Pursuing  past,  unhappy  loves  ! 
Farewell,  my  friends  !     Farewell,  my  foes  . 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those— 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare  ; 
Farewell,  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr 


COWPER 


THE  INFIDEL  AND  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

The  path  to  bliss  abounds  with  many  a  snare  ; 
Learning  is  one,  and  wit,  however  rare. 
The  Frenchman,  first  in  literary  fame, 
(Mention  him  if  you  please.     Voltaire  ? — The  same.) 
With  spirit,  genius,  eloquence,  supplied, 
Lived  long,  wrote  much,  laughed  heartily,  and  died. 
The  Scripture  was  his  jest-book,  whence  he  drew 
Bon-mots  to  gall  the  Christian  and  the  Jew  ; 
An  infidel  in  health,  but  what  when  sick  1 
O — then  a  text  would  touch  him  at  the  quick  : 
View  him  at  Paris  in  his  last  career, 
Surrounding  throngs  the  demi-god  revere  ; 
Exalted  on  his  pedestal  of  pride, 
And  fumed  with  frankincense  on  every  side, 
He  begs  their  flattery  with  his  latest  breath, 
And  smothered  in't  at  last,  is  praised  to  death. 

Yon  cottager,  who  weaves  at  her  own  door, 
Pillow  and  bobbins  all  her  little  store  ; 


COWPER.  197 

Content  though  mean,  and  cheerful  if  not  gay, 
Shuffling  her  threads  about  the  livelong  day, 
Just  earns  a  scanty  pittance,  and  at  night 
Lies  down  secure,  her  heart  and  pocket  light ; 
She,  for  her  humble  sphere  by  nature  fit, 
Has  little  understanding,  and  no  wit, 
Receives  no  praise  ;  but,  though  her  lot  be  such, 
(Toilsome  and  indigent)  she  renders  much  ; 
Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  her  Bible  true, 
A  truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew  ; 
And  in  that  charter  reads  with  sparkling  eyes 
Her  title  to  a  treasure  in  the  skies. 

O  happy  peasant !     O  unhappy  bard  ! 
His  the  mere  tinsel,  her's  the  rich  reward  ; 
He  praised  perhaps  for  ages  yet  to  come, 
She  never  heard  of  half  a  mile  from  home  : 
He  lost  in  errors  his  vain  heart  prefers, 
She  safe  in  the  simplicity  of  hers. 


PORTRAIT  OF  WHITFIELD. 

Leuconomus  (beneath  well-sounding  Greek 
I  slur  a  name  a  poet  may  not  speak) 
Stood  pilloried  on  Infamy's  high  stage, 
And  bore  the  pelting  scorn  of  half  an  age ; 
The  very  butt  of  Slander,  and  the  blot 
For  every  dart  that  Malice  ever  shot. 
The  man  that  mentioned  him  at  once  dismissed 
Vll  mercy  from  his  lips,  and  sneered  and  hissed 
His  crimes  were  such  as  Sodom  never  knew, 
A.nd  Perjury  stood  up  to  swear  all  true  ; 
17* 


198  COWPER. 

His  aim  was  mischief,  and  his  zeal  pretence, 

His  speech  rebellion  against  common  sense, 

A  knave,  when  tried  on  honesty's  plain  rule  ; 

And  when  by  that  of  reason,  a  mere  fool ; 

The  world's  best  comfort  was,  his  doom  was  pa»  «d ; 

Die  when  he  might,  he  must  be  damned  at  last. 

Now,  Truth,  perform  thine  office  ;  waft  asid 
The  curtain  drawn  by  Prejudice  and  Pride, 
Reveal  (the  man  is  dead)  to  wondering  eyes 
This  more  than  monster,  in  his  proper  guise. 

He  loved  the  world  that  hated  him  :  the  tear 
That  dropped  upon  his  Bible  was  sincere  ; 
Assailed  by  scandal  and  the  tongue  of  strife, 
His  only  answer  was  a  blameless  life  ; 
And  he  that  forged,  and  he  that  threw  the  dart, 
Had  each  a  brother's  interest  in  his  heart. 
Paul's  love  of  Christ,  and  steadiness  unbribed, 
Were  copied  close  in  him,  and  well  transcribed. 
He  followed  Paul  ;  his  zeal  a  kindred  flame, 
His  apostolic  charity  the  same. 
Like  him,  crossed  cheerfully  tempestuous  seas, 
Forsaking  country,  kindred,  friends,  and  ease  : 
Like  him  he  laboured,  and  like  him  content 
To  bear  it,  .suffered  shame  where'er  he  went. 
Blush,  Calumny  !  and  write  upon  his  tomb, 
If  honest  Eulogy  can  spare  thee  room, 
Thy  deep  repentance  of  thy  thousand  lies, 
Which  aimed  at  him,  has  pierced  the  offended  ski     ; 
And  say,  Blot  out  my  sin,  confessed,  deplored, 
Against  thine  image  in  thy  saint,  O  Lord  ! 


COWPER.  199 


CHRISTIAN  LIBERTY. 


He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.     There's  not  a  chain 
That  hellish  foes  confederate  for  his  harm 
Can  wind  around  him,  but  lie  casts  it  off 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 
He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature  ;  and  though  poor,  perhaps,  compared 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight, 
Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own. 
His  are  the  mowntains,  and  the  valley  his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers.     His  to  enjoy 
With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired, 
Can  lift  to  heaven  an  unpresumptuous  eye, 
And  smiling  say — '  My  father  made  them  all !' 
Are  they  not  his  by  a  peculiar  right, 
And  by  an  emphasis  of  interest  his, 
Whose  eyes  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy, 
Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 
With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love 
That  planned,  and  built,  and  still  upholds,  a  world 
So  clothed  with  beauty,  for  rebellious  man? 
Yes,  ye  may  fill  your  garners,  ye  that  reap 
The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 
In  senseless  riot ;  but  ye  will  not  find 
In  feast,  or  in  the  chace,  in  song  or  dance, 
A  liberty  like  his,  who,  unimpeached 
Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's  wrong, 


COO  COWPhR. 

Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's  work, 

And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours  than  you. 

He  is  indeed  a  freeman.     Free  hy  birth 

Of  no  mean  city,  planned  or  e'er  the  hills 

Were  built,  the  fountains  opened,  or  the  sea 

With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 

His  freedom  is  the  same  in  every  state  ; 

And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 

So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  every  day 

Bring  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less : 

For  he  has  wings  that  neither  sickness,  pain, 

Nor  penury  can  cripple  or  confine  ; 

No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreads  them  there 

With  ease,  and  is  at  large.     The  oppressor  holds 

His  body  bound  ;  but  knows  not  what  a  range 

His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  of  a  chain  ; 

And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt, 

Whom  God  delights  in,  and  in  whom  he  dwells. 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  wouldst  taste 
His  works.     Admitted  once  to  his  embrace, 
Thou  shalt  perceive  that  thou  wast  blind  before : 
Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed  ;  and  thine  heart 
Made  pure,  shall  relish  with  divine  delight, 
Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought. 
Brutes  graze  the  mountain  top  with  faces  prone 
And  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 
It  yields  them  ;  or,  recumbent  on  its  brow, 
Ruminate,  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 
Beneath,  beyond,  and  stretching  far  away, 
From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main. 
Man  views  it  and  admires,  but  rests  content 
With  what  he  views.     The  landscape  has  his  praise 


COWPER  201 

But  not  its  Author.     Unconcerned  who  formed 

The  paradise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such; 

And,  such  well-pleased  to  find  it,  asks  no  more. 

Not  so  the  mind  that  has  been  touched  from  heaven, 

And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdom  taught 

To  read  his  wonders,  in  whose  thought  the  world, 

Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 

Not  for  its  own  sake  merely,  but  for  his 

Much  more  who  fashioned  it,  he  gives  it  praise ; 

Praise  that  from  earth  resulting,  as  it  ought, 

To  earth's  acknowledged  Sovereign,  finds  at  once 

Its  only  just  proprietor  in  Him. 

The  soul  that  sees  him,  or  receives  sublimed 

New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  to  employ 

More  worthily  the  powers  she  owned  before, 

Discerns  in  all  things  what,  with  stupid  gaze 

Of  ignorance,  till  then  she  overlooked, 

A  ray  of  heavenly  light,  gilding  all  forms 

Terrestrial,  in  the  vast  and  the  minute, 

The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God 

Who  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect's  wing, 

And  wheels  his  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 

Much  conversant  with  heaven,  she  often  holds 

With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man, 

That  fills  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp, 

Sweet  conference  !  inquires  what  strains  were  they 

With  which  heaven  rang,  when  every  star,  in  haste 

To  gratulate  the  new-created  earth, 

Sent  forth  a  voice,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 

Shouted  for  joy. — '  Tell  me,  ye  shining  hosts, 

That  navigate  a  sea  that  knows  no  storms, 

Beneath  a  vault  unsullied  with  a  cloud, 


202  COWPEK. 

If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view 

Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man, 

And  systems,  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 

Have  reached  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a  race 

Favoured  as  ours,  transgressors  from  the  womb, 

And  hasting  to  a  grave,  yet  doomed  to  rise, 

And  to  possess  a  brighter  heaven  than  yours? 

As  one  who,  long  detained  on  foreign  shores, 

Pants  to  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 

His  country's  weather-bleached  and  battered  rocks, 

From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye 

Radiant  with  joy  towards  the  happy  land ; 

So  I  with  animated  hopes  behold, 

And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

Ordained  to  guide  th'  embodied  spirit  home, 

From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 

Love  kindles  as  I  gaze.     I  feel  desires 

That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 

And  that,  infused  from  heaven,  must  thither  tend.' 

So  reads  he  Nature,  whom  the  lamp  of  truth 
Illuminates  :  thy  lamp,  mysterious  Word  ! 
Winch  whoso  sees,  no  longer  wanders  lost, 
With  intellects  bemazed,  in  endless  doubt, 
But  runs  the  road  of  wisdom.     Thou  hast  built 
With  means  that  were  not,  till  by  thee  employed, 
Worlds  that  had  never  been,  hadst  thou  in  strength 
Been  less,  or  less  benevolent  than  strong. 
They  are  thy  witnesses,  who  speak  thy  power 
And  goodness  infinite,  but  speak  in  ears 
That  hear  not,  or  receive  not  their  report, 
In  vain  thy  creatures  testifv  of  thee, 


C0WPER.       ,  203 

Till  thou  proclaim  thyself.     Theirs  is  indeed 

A  teaching  voice  ;   but  'tis  the  praise  of  thine, 

That  whom  it  teaches  it  makes  prompt  to  learn, 

And  with  the  boon  gives  talents  for  its  use. 

Till  thou  art  heard,  imaginations  vain 

Possess  the  heart,  and'  fables  false  as  hell, 

Yet  deemed  oracular,  lure  down  to  death 

The  uninformed  and  heedless  souls  of  men, 

We  give  to  chance,  blind  chance,  ourselves  as  blind, 

The  glory  of  thy  work,  which  yet  appears 

Perfect  and  unimpeachable  of  blame, 

Challenging  human  scrutiny,  and  proved 

Then  skilful  most  when  most  severely  judged. 

But  chance  is  not ;  or  is  not  where  thou  reign'st : 

Thy  providence  forbids  that  fickle  power 

(If  power  she  be,  that  works  but  to  confound) 

To  mix  her  wild  vagaries  with  thy  laws. 

Yet  thus  we  dote,  refusing  while  Ave  cnn 

Instruction,  and  inventing  to  ourselves 

Gods  such  as  guilt  makes  welcome,  gods  tnat  sleep, 

Or  disregard  our  follies,  or  that  sit 

Amused  spectators  of  this  bustling  stage. 

Thee  we  reject,  unable  to  abide 

Thy  purity,  till  pure  as  thou  art  pure, 

Made  such  by  thee,  we  love  thee  for  that  cause, 

For  which  we  shunned  and  hated  thee  before. 

Then  we  are  free:  then  liberty,  like  day, 

Breaks  on  the  soul,  and  by  a  flash  from  heaven 

Fires  all  the  faculties  with  glorious  joy. 

A  voice  is  heard,  that  mortal  ears  hear  not 

Till  thou  hast  touched  them  ;  'tis  the  voice  of  song-  • 

4  loud  Hosanna  sent  from  all  thy  works, 


204 


COWPER 


Which  he  that  hears  it  with  a  shout  repeats, 
And  adds  his  rapture  to  the  general  praise. 
In  that  blest  moment  Nature,  throwing  wide 
Her  veil  opaque,  discloses  with  a  smile 
The  author  of  her  beauties,  who,  retired 
Behind  his  own  creation,  works  unseen 
By  the  impure,  and  hears  his  power  denied. 
Thou  art  the  source  and  centre  of  all  minds, 
Their  only  point  of  rest,  eternal  Word  ! 
From  thee  departing  they  are  lost,  and  rove 
At  random,  without  honour,  hope,  or  peace. 
From  thee  is  all  that  soothes  the  life  of"  man, 
His  high  endeavour,  and  his  glad  success, 
His  strength  to  suffer,  and  his  will  to  serve. 
But  O,  thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good, 
Thou  art  of  all  thy  gifts  thyself  the  crown  ! 
Give  what  thou  canst,  without  thee  we  are  poor 
And  with  thee  rich,  take  what  thou  wilt  away. 


COWPER.  20ft 


ANTICIPATIONS  OF  PROPHECY 


The  groans  of  nature  in  this  nether  world, 
Which  heaven  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end. 
Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung, 
Whose  fire  was  kindled  at  the  prophet's  lamp, 
The  time  of  rest,  the  promised  Sabbath,  comes. 
Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well  nigh 
Fulfilled  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course 
Over  a  sinful  world  ;  and  what  remains 
Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  things, 
Is  merely  as  the  workings  of  a  sea 
Before  a  calm,  that  rocks  itself  to  rest. 
For  He,  whose  car  the  winds  are,  and  the  clouds 
The  dust  that  waits  upon  his  sultry  march, 
When  sin  hath  moved  him,  and  his  wrath  is  hot, — 
Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy ;  shall  descend 
Propitious  in  his  chariot  paved  with  love; 
And  what  his  storms  have  blasted  and  defaced, 
For  man's  revolt,  shall  with  a  smile  repair. 

Sweet  is  the  harp  of  prophecy  ;  too  sweet 
Not  to  be  wronged  by  a  mere  mortal  touch ; 
Nor  can  the  wonders  it  records  be  sung 
To  meaner  music,  and  not  suffer  loss. 
But  when  a  poet,  or  when  one  like  me, 
Happy  to  rove  among  poetic  flowers, 
Though  poor  in  skill  to  rear  them,  lights  at  last 
On  some  fair  theme,  some  theme  divinely  fair 
Such  is  the  impulse  and  the  spur  he  feels, 
To  give  it  praise  proportioned  to  its  worth, 
18 


206  r  >  >  v\  p  i :  r,  . 

That  not  t'  attempt  it,  arduous  as  lie  deems 
The  labour,  were  a  task  more  arduous  still. 

O  scenes  surpassing  fahle,  and  yet  true, 
Scenes  of  accomplished  bliss  !  which  who  can  see, 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 
His  soul  refreshed  with  foretaste  of  the  joy  ? 
Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth, 
And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty  ;  the  reproach 
Of  barrenness  is  past.     The  fruitful  field 
Laughs  with  abundance  ;  and  the  land,  once  lean, 
Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace, 
Exults  to  see  its  thistly  curse  repealed. 
The  various  seasons  woven  into  one, 
And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring, 
The  garden  fears  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fence, 
For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 
The  lion,  and  the  libbard,  and  the  bear, 
Graze  with  the  fearless  flocks  :  all  bask  at  noon 
Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade 
Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  stream. 
Antipathies  are  none.     No  foe  to  man 
Lurks  in  the  serpent  now  ;  the  mother  sees, 
And  smiles  to  see,  her  infant's  playful  hand 
Stretched  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm, 
Or  stroke  his  azure  neck,  or  to  receive 
The  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 
All  creatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 
One  Lord,  one  Father  :  Error  has  no  place  ; 
That  creeping  pestilence  is  driven  away  ; 
The  breath  of  Heaven  has  chased  it.     In  the  heart 
No  passion  touches  a  discordant  string, 
But  all  is  harmony  and  love.     Disease 


COWPER.  207 

Is  not :  the  pure  and  uncontaminate  bJood 
Holds  its  due  course,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age. 
One  song  employs  all  nations,  and  all  cry, 
M  Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  he  was  slain  for  us !" 
The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain-tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy : 
Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  hosanna  round. 
Behold  the  measure  of  the  promise  filled  ; 
See  Salem  built,  the  labour  of  a  God  ! 
Bright  as  a  sun  the  sacred  city  shines ; 
All  kingdoms,  and  all  princes  of  the  earth 
Flock  to  that  light,  the  glory  of  all  lands 
Flows  into  her  ;  unbounded  is  her  joy, 
And  endless  her  increase.     Thy  rams  are  there, 
Nebaioth,  and  the  flocks  of  Kedar  there  ; 
The  looms  of  Ormus,  and  the  mines  of  Ind, 
And  Saba's  spicy  groves,  pay  tribute  there. 
Praise  is  in  all  her  gates ;  upon  her  walls, 
And  in  her  streets,  and  in  her  spacious  courts, 
Is  heard  salvation.     Eastern  Java  there 
Kneels  with  the  native  of  the  farthest  west ; 
And  Ethiopia  spreads  abroad  the  hand, 
And  worships.     Her  report  has  travelled  forth 
Into  all  lands.     From  every  clime  they  come 
To  see  thy  beauty,  and  to  share  thy  joy, 
O  Sion  !  an  assembly  such  as  earth 
Saw  never ;  such  as  heaven  stoops  down  to  see. 


208  COWPER 


SLAVERY. 

O  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 
Might  never  reach  me  more.     My  ear  is  pained, 
My  soul  is  sick,  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage,  with  which  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 
-t  does  not  feel  for  man  ;  the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax, 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  coloured  like  his  own  ;  and  having  power 
T'  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys ; 
And,  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart 
Weeps,  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  man  ?    And  what  man,  seeing  this, 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush, 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 


COWPER.  209 

I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep, 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 
No :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave, 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home. — Then  why  abroad  ? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ;  if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  ; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 
Of  all  your  empire ;  that,  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 


210  COWPER 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


Hark !  'tis  the  twanging  horn  o'er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright ; — 
He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 
With  spattered  boots,  strapped  waist,  and  frozen  locks  ,* 
News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  hack : 
True  to  his  charge,  the  close  packed  load  behind, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings  ;  his  one  concern, 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn  ; 
And,  having  dropped  the  expected  bag,  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light  hearted  wretch, 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful,  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some  ; 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 
Houses  in  ashes,  or  the  fall  of  stocks  ; 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages  ;  epistles  wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cbeeka, 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill ; 
Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains, 
Or  nymphs  responsive  ;  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  O  the  important  budget !   ushered  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music  ;  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings'?     Have  our  troops  awaked  ? 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged, 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave? 
Is  India  free  ?  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 


COWPER.  211 

And  jewelled  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still  1     The  grand  debate, 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 
And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all; 
I  burn  to  set  the  imprisoned  wranglers  free, 
And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 
Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 
Not  such  his  eveuiug,  who  with  shining  face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and  squeezed 
And  bored  with  elbow  points  through  both  his  sides 
Out-scolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage  : 
Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb, 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage  ; 
Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 
This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work ! 
Which  iiot  e'en  critics  criticize ;  that  holds 
Inquisitive  attention,  while  I  read, 
Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break  :— 
What  is  it  but  a  map  of  busy  life, 
Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? 
Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge 
That  tempts  ambition.     On  the  summit  see 
The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes; 
He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them  !     At  his  heels, 


212  COWPER. 

Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends, 

And  with  a  dextrous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down, 

And  wins  them  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 

Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence ^n  soft 

Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take  ; 

The  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved 

To  engross  a  moment's  notice,  and  yet  begs, 

Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts, 

However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 

Sweet  bashfulness  !  it  claims  at  least  this  praise, 

The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense 

That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 

Cataracts  of  declamation  thunder  here  ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page. 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost ; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 

With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes 

The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 

But  gay  confusion  ;  roses  for  the  cheeks, 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age;     • 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald  ; 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean  plundered  of  their  sweets; 

Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews, 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  favourite  airs  ; 

Ethereal  journies,  submarine  exploits, 

And  Katterfelto  with  his  hair  on  end 

At  his  own  wonders — wondering  for  his  bread. 

'Tis  pleasant  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat 

To  peep  at  such  a  world  ;  to  see  the  stir 

Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd ; 

To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 

At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 


COWPER.  213 

Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  the  uninjured  ear. 

Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 

The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanced 

To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 

That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 

It  turns,  submitted  to  my  view ;  turns  round, 

With  all  its  generations :  I  behold 

The  tumult  and  am  still.     The  sound  of  war 

Has  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  me  ; 

Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.     I  mourn  the  pride 

A  nd  avarice,  that  make  man  a  wolf  to  man  ; 

Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats, 

By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart, 

And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  sound. 

He  travels  and  expatiates  ;  as  the  bee 

From  flower  to  flower,  so  he  from  land  to  land ; 

The  manners,  customs,  policy  of  all 

Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans  ; 

He  sucks  intelligence  in  every  clime, 

And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 

At  his  return — a  rich  repast  for  me. 

He  travels,  and  I  too.     I  tread  his  deck, 

Ascend  his  topmast,  through  his  peering  eyes 

Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 

Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes  ; 

While  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a  clock, 

Runs  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 


214  COWPER. 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 


Oh  that  those  ]ips  had  language  !  Life  lias  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  1  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine, — thine  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
'  Grieve  not,  my  child  ;  chase  all  thy  fears  away  ! 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes, 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  thatbaffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it,)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 
O  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 
Who  bid'st  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  .uo  long. 
i  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 
But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief; 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother  !  when  I  learnt  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss  ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss. 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers — Yes. 


.  _  -  Leslie . 


£%  via&JTUtfe  /(/hj /tatV^a/mirtM: 


cow  ps  r.  216 

•  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  tliee  slow  away, 

And,  turning  from  tny  nursery  window,  drew 

A  long,  Jong  sigh,  und  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 

But  was  it  such  ?     It  was. —  Where  thou  art  gone, 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  asound  unknowu. 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return  : 

WVat  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed, 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 

Hv  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 

Dune  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I  learned,  at  last,  submission  to  my  lot, 

Hut  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt,  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  !  but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid  ; 


216  COWPER 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 

The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum  ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 

By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed : 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 

That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes  ; 

All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  till  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may  : 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile) 
Could  those  few  pleasant  hours  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would     wish  them  here 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart, — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast, 
The  storms  all  weathered,  and  the  ooean  crossed 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile 


cu  w  PE  It  . 


217 


There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reach'd  the  shore, 
"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar,*' 
And  thy  lov'd  consort  on  the  dang'rous  tide 
Of  life,  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss*d, 
Sails  ripp'd,  seams  op'ning  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosp'rous  course. 
Yet  O  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now  farewell — Time  unrevoked  hath  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done, 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  t'  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again  ; 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  die  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — ■ 
Thyself  remov'd,  thy  pow'r  to  sooth  me  left 
19 


218  COWPER. 


BENEFITS  OF  AFFLICTION 

The  path  of  sorrow,  and  that  path  alone, 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown  ; 
No  traveller  ever  reached  that  blessed  abode, 
Who  found  not  thorns  and  briars  in  his  road. 
The  World  may  dance  along  the  flowery  plain 
Cheered  as  they  go  by  many  a  sprightly  strain  ; 
Where  Nature  has  her  mossy  velvet  spread, 
With  unshod  feet  they  yet  securely  tread, 
Admonished,  scorn  the  caution  and  the  friend, 
Bent  all  on  pleasure,  heedless  of  its  end. 
But  he,  who  knew  what  human  hearts  would  prove, 
How  slow  to  learn  the  dictates  of  his  love, 
That,  hard  by  nature  and  of  stubborn  will, 
A  life  of  ease  would  make  them  harder  still, 
In  pity  to  the  souls  his  grace  designed 
To  rescue  from  the  ruin  of  mankind, 
Called  for  a  cloud  to  darken  all  their  years, 
And  said,  '  Go,  spend  them  in  the  vale  of  tears.' 

O  balmy  gales  of  soul-reviving  air  ! 
O  salutary  streams  that  murmur  there  ! 
These,  flowing  from  the  fount  of  grace  above ; 
Those,  breathed  from  lips  of  everlasting  love  ; 
The  flinty  soil  indeed  their  feet  annoys, 
Chill  blasts  of  trouble  nip  their  springing  joys, 
An  envious  world  will  interpose  its  frown 
To  mar  delights  superior  to  its  own, 
And  many  a  pang,  experience  still  within, 
Reminds  them  of  their  hated  inmate,  Sin  ; 


cowpeu.  219 

But  ilia  of  every  shape  and  every  name, 
Transformed  to  blessing,  miss  their  cruel  aim  ; 
And  every  moment's  calm  that  soothes  the  breast, 
Is  given  in  earnest  of  eternal  rest. 

Ah,  be  not  sad,  although  thy  lot  be  cast 
Far  from  the  flock,  and  in  a  boundless  waste  ! 
No  shepherds'  tents  within  thy  view  appear, 
But  the  chief  Shepherd  even  there  is  near ; 
Thy  tender  sorrows  and  thy  plaintive  strain 
Flow  in  a  foreign  land,  but  not  in  vain, 
Thy  tears  all  issue  from  a  source  divine, 
And  every  drop  bespeaks  a  Saviour  thine — 
So  once  in  Gideon's  fleece  the  dews  were  found, 
And  drought  on  all  the  drooping  herbs  around. 


THE  CASTAWAY. 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 
The  Atlantic  billows  roared, 

When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
Washed  headlong  from  on  board, 

Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 

His  floating  home  forever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast, 
Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 
With  warmer  wishes  sent : 

He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain. 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 


220  COWPEK 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brin 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay  ; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away  ; 
But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted  :  nor  his  friends  had  fail 
To  check  the  vessel's  course, 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevailed, 
That,  pitiless  perforce, 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succour  yet  they  could  afford  ; 

And,  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delayed  not  to  bestow. 
But  he,  they  knew,  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seemed,  could  he 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 
Alone  could  rescue  them  ; 

Yet"  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 

Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld: 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repelled  : 
And  ever  as  the  minutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  or  cried — "  Adieu  '*' 


COWPBR.  221 


At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 

His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 

Gould  catch  the  sound  no  more  : 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him  :  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear : 
And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date  ; 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

'No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perished  each  alone ; 
Bu*  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea,  § 
And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 


222  cowper. 


TO  MRS.  UN  WIN.  ? 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past, 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; 
Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 
My  Mary  I 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 

I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow — 

'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 

My  Mary  ! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more; 
My  Mary ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 
My  Mary  ! 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 
My  Mary 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream  ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme, 
My  Mary ! 


cowper.  223 


Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 
My  Mary ! 

For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 
My  Mary  ! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign ; 
Yet  gently  prest,  press  gently  mine, 
My  Mary ! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st 
Upheld  by  two  ;  yet  still  thou  lov'st, 
My  Mary ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  prest  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary  ! 

But  ah  !  by  constant  heed  I  know, 
How  oft  thn  sadness  that  I  show, 
Transform  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  wo, 
My  Mary  ! 


224 


COWPER 


And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast, 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 
My  Mary. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  NEWTON. 


That  ocean  you  have  late  surveyed, 
Those  rocks,  I  too  have  seen  ; 

But  I,  afflicted  and  dismayed, 
You,  tranquil  and  serene. 

You,  from  the  flood-controlling  steep, 
Saw  stretched  before  your  view, 

With  conscious  joy,  the  threatening  deep 
No  longer  such  to  you. 


To  me,  the  waves  that  ceaseless  broke 
Upon  the  dangerous  coast, 

Hoarsely  and  ominously  spoke, 
Of  all  my  treasure  lost. 


Your  sea  of  troubles  you  have  passed, 
And  found  the  peaceful  shore  ; 

I,  tempest-tossed  and  wrecked  at  last, 
Come  home  to  port  no  more. 


cowper.  225 


HUMAN  FRAILTY. 

Weak  and  irresolute  is  man ; 

The  purpose  of  to-day, 
Woven  with  pains  into  his  plan, 

To-morrow  rends  away. 

The  bow  well  bent,  and  smart  the  spring, 

Vice  seems  already  slain  ; 
But  Passion  rudely  snaps  the  string, 

And  it  revives  again. 

Some  foe  to  his  upright  intent 

Finds  out  his  weaker  part ; 
Virtue  engages  his  assent, 

But  Pleasure  wins  his  heart. 

'Tis  here  the  folly  of  the  wise, 
Through  all  his  art  we  view  ; 

And,  while  his  tongue  the  charge  denies, 
His  conscience  owns  it  true. 

Bound  on  a  voyage  of  awful  length 

And  dangers  little  known, 
A  stranger  to  superior  strength, 

Man  vainly  trusts  his  own. 

But  oars  alone  can  ne'er  prevail, 

To  reach  the  distant  coast ; 
The  breath  of  heaven  must  swell  the  sail, 

Or  all  the  toil  is  lost. 


226  cow  per 


RETIREMENT. 

Far  from  the  world,  O  Lord !  I  flee, 

From  strife  and  tumult  far  ; 
From  scenes  where  Satan  wages  still 

His  most  successful  war. 

The  calm  retreat,  the  silent  shade, 
With  prayer  and  praise  agree ; 

And  seem,  by  thy  sweet  bounty,  made 
For  those  who  follow  thee. 

There  if  thy  spirit  touch  the  soul, 
And  grace  her  mean  abode  ; 

Oh  !  with  what  peace,  and  joy,  and  lore, 
She  communes  with  her  God ! 

There  like  the  nightingale,  she  pours 

Her  solitary  lays ; 
Nor  asks  a  witness  of  her  song, 

Nor  thirsts  for  human  praise. 

Author  and  guardian  of  my  life, 
Sweet  source  of  light  divine  ; 

And,  all  harmonious  names  in  one, 
My  Saviour,  thou  art  mine  ! 

What  thanks  I  owe  thee,  and  what  love, 

A  boundless,  endless  store, 
Shall  echo  through  the  realms  above, 

When  time  shall  be  no  more. 


cow  per.  227 


PR0V1  I ENCE. 


God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way, 

His  wonders  to  perform  ; 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill, 
He  treasures  up  his  bright  designs, 

And  works  his  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take, 
The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread, 

Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 
In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense. 
But  trust  him  for  his  grace  ; 

Behind  a  frowning  providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  every  hour ; 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 
And  scan  his  work  in  vain; 

Cod  is  his  own  interpreter, 
And  he  will  make  it  plain. 


CRABBE. 


THE  MOURNER. 


Yes  !  there  are  real  mourners, — 1  have  seen 
A  fair  sad  girl,  mild,  suffering,  and  serene  ; 
Attention  (through  the  day)  her  duties  claimed, 
And  to  be  useful  as  resigned  she  aimed ; 
Neatly  she  drest,  nor  vainly  seemed  t'  expect 
Pity  for  grief,  or  pardon  for  neglect ; 
But  when  her  wearied  parents  sunk  to  sleep, 
She  sought  her  place  to  meditate  and  weep  ; 
Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  displayed, 
That  faithful  memory  brings  to  sorrow's  aid  : 
For  then  she  thought  on  one  regretted  youth, 
,T-.r  tender  trust,  and  his  unquestioned  truth  ; 
iu  every  place  she  wandered,  where  they'd  been, 
And  sadly-sacred  held  the  parting  scene, 
Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave  ;  that  place 
With  double  interest  would  she  nightly  trace  ! 


OR  ABBE.  229 

Happy  he  sailed,  and  great  the  cares  he  took, 
That  he  should  softly  sleep  and  smartly  look  ; 
White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck ; 
And  every  comfort  men  at  sea  can  know, 
Was  her's  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow : 
For  he  to  Greenland  sailed,  and  much  she  told, 
How  he  should  guard  against  the  climate's  cold  ; 
Yet  saw  not  danger  ;  dangers  he'd  withstood, 
Nor  could  she  trace  the  fever  in  his  blood. 

His  messmates  smiled  at  flushings  on  his  cheek, 
And  he  too  smiled,  but  seldom  would  he  speak ; 
For  now  he  found  the  danger,  felt  the  pain, 
With  grievous  symptoms  he  could  not  explain. 
He  called  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a  sigh 
A  lover's  message. — '  Thomas,  I  must  die : 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sally,  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast. 
And  gazing  go  ! — if  not,  this  trifle  take, 
And  say,  till  death  I  wore  it  for  her  sake  : 
Yes!  I  must  die — blow  on,  sweet  breeze,  blow  on, 
Give  me  one  look  before  my  life  be  gone, 
Oh  !  give  me  that,  and  let  me  not  despair, 
One  last  fond  look ! — and  now  repeat  the  prayer.' 

He  had  his  wish,  had  more  :  I  will  not  paint 
The  lovers'  meeting ;  she  beheld  him  faint, — 
With  tender  fears,  she  took  a  nearer  view, 
Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew  : 
He  tried  to  smile  ;  .and,  half  succeeding,  said, 
"  Yes  !  I  must  die" — and  hope  forever  fled. 
Still  long  she  nursed  him  ;  tender  thoughts  meantime 
Were  interchanged,  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 
20 


230 


CRABBE. 


To  her  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  away  ; 
With  him  she  prayed,  to  him  his  Bible  read, 
Soothed  the  faint  heart,  and  held  the  aching  head : 
She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  to  cheer, 
Apart  she  sighed  ;  alone,  she  shed  the  tear  ; 
Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a  cloud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave. 

One  day  he  lighter  seemed,  and  they  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot ; 
They  spoke  with  cheerfulness,  and  seemed  to  think, 
Yet  said  not  so — "  Perhaps  he  will  not  sink." 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appeared, 
A  sudden  vigour  in  his  voice  was  heard  ; — 
She  had  been  reading  in  the  Book  ©f  Prayer, 
And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his  chair ; 
Lively  he  seemed,  and  spake  of  all  he  knew, 
The  friendly  many,  and  the  favourite  few  ; 
Nor  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall, 
But  she  has  treasured,  and  she  loves  them  all ; 
When  in  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people — death  has  made  them  dear. 
He  named  his  friend,  but  then  his  hand  she  prest, 
And  fondly  whispered,  "  Thou  must  go  to  rest." 
"  I  go,"  he  said  ;  but  as  he  spoke,  she  found 
His  hand  more  cold,  and  fluttering  was  the  sound  ; 
Then  gazed  affrighted  ;  but  she  caught  a  last, 
A  dying  look  of  love,  and  all  was  past ! 

She  placed  a  decent  stone  his  grave  above, 
Neatly  engraved — an  offering  of  her  love  ; 
For  that  she  wrought,  for  that  forsook  her  bed, 
Awake  alike  to  duty  and  the  dead  ; 


CRABBE  231 

She  would  have  grieved,  had  friends  presumed  to  spare 

The  least  assistance — 'twas  her  proper  care. 

Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will  sit, 

Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit: 

But  if  observer  pass,  will  take  her  round, 

And  careless  seem,  for  she  would  not  be  found  ; 

Then  go  again,  and  thus  her  hours  employ, 

While  visions  please  her,  and  while  woes  destroy. 


A  MOTHER'S  DEATH. 

Then  died  lamented,  in  the  strength  of  life, 
A  valued  Mother  and  a  faithful  Wife ; 
Called  not  away,  when  time  had  loosed  each  hold 
On  the  fond  heart,  and  each  desire  grew  cold  ; 
But  when  to  all  that  knit  us  to  our  kind, 
She  felt  fast  bound,  as  charity  can  bind  ; — 
Not  when  the  ills  of  age,  its  pain,  its  care, 
The  drooping  spirit  for  its  fate  prepare  ; 
And,  each  affection  failing,  leaves  the  heart 
Loosed  from  life's  charm,  and  willing  to  depart  ;— 
But  all  her  ties  the  strong  invader  broke, 
In  all  their  strength,  by  one  tremendous  stroke  : 
Sudden  and  swift  the  eager  pest  came  on, 
And  terror  grew,  till  every  hope  was  gone  r 
Still  those  around  appeared  forhope  to  seek  ! 
But  viewed  the  sick  and  were  afraid  to  speak. 

Slowly  they  bore,  with  solemn  step,  the  dead  :— 
When  grief  grew  loud  and  bitter  tears  were  shed  : — 
My  part  began  ;  a  crowd  drew  near  the  place, 
Awe  in  each  eye,  alarm  in  every  face : 


232  CRABBE 

So  swift  the  ill,  and  of  so  fierce  a  kind, 

That  fear  with  pity,  mingled  in  each  mind; 

Friends  with  the  husband  came,  their  griefs  to  blend ; 

For  good-man  Frankford  was  to  all  a  friend. 

The  last-born  boy  they  held  above  the  bier, 

He  knew  not  grief,  but  cries  expressed  his  fear ; 

Each  different  age  and  sex  revealed  its  pain, 

In  now  a  louder,  now  a  lower  strain  : 

While  the  meek  father,  listening  to  their  tones, 

Swelled  the  full  cadence  of  the  grief  by  groans 

The  elder  sister  strove  her  pangs  to  hide, 

And  soothing  words  to  younger  minds  applied 

"  Be  still,  be  patient,"  oft  she  strove  to  say  ; 

But  failed  as  oft,  and  weeping  turned  away. 

Curious  and  sad,  upon  the  fresh-dug  hill, 
The  village-lads  stood  melancholy  still ; 
And  idle  children,  wandering  to-and-fro, 
As  nature  guided,  took  the  tone  of  wo 

Arrived  at  home,  how  then  they  gazed  around. 
In  every  place — where  she,  no  more,  was  found  ; 
The  seat  at  table  she  was  wont  to  fill ; 
The  fire-side  chair,  still  set,  but  vacant  still ; 
The  garden  walks,  a  labour  all  her  own ; 
The  lattice  bower  with  trailing  shrubs  o'ergrown ; 
The  Sunday-pew,  she  filled  with  all  her  race  ; 
Each  place  of  her's,  was  now  a  sacred  place, 
That,  while  it  called  up  sorrows  in  the  eyes, 
Pierced  the  full  heart,  and  forced  them  still  to  rw» 


CRABBE.  233 


PHCEBE  DAWSON. 


Two  summers  since,  I  saw,  at  Lammas  Fair, 
The  sweetest  flower  that  ever  blossomed  there, 
"When  Phoebe  Dawson  gaily  crossed  the  green, 
In  haste  to  see,  and  happy  to  be  seen  : 
Her  air,  her  manners,  all  who  saw,  admired  ; 
Courteous  though  coy,  and  gentle  though  retired ; 
The  joy  of  youth  and  health  her  eyes  displayed, 
And  ease  of  heart  her  every  look  conveyed  ; 
A  native  skill  her  simple  robes  expressed, 
As  with  untutored  elegance  she  dressed : 
The  lads  around  admired  so  fair  a  sight, 
And  Phcebe  felt,  and  felt  she  gave,  delight ; 
Admirers  soon  of  every  age  she  gained, 
Her  beauty  won  them  and  her  worth  retained ; 
Envy  itself «ould  no  contempt  display, 
They  wished  her  well,  whom  yet  they  wished  away. 
Correct  in  thought,  she  judged  a  servant's  place, 
Preserved  a  rustic  beauty  from  disgrace ; 
But  yet  on  Sunday-eve  in  freedom's  hour, 
With  secret  joy  she  felt  that  beauty's  power, 
When  some  proud  bliss  upon  the  heart  would  steal, 
That,  poor  or  rich,  a  beauty  still  must  feel. — 

At  length,  the  youth,  ordained  to  move  her  breast, 
Before  the  swains  with  bolder  spirit  pressed; 
With  looks  less  timid  made  his  passion  known, 
And  pleased  by  manners,  most  unlike  her  own; 
Loud  though  in  love,  and  confident  though  young ; 
Fierce  in  his  air,  and  voluble  of  tongue  ; 
20* 


234  CRABUE. 

By  trade  a  tailor,  though,  in  scorn  of  trade, 
He  served  the  Squire,  and  brushed  the  coat  he  made : 
Yet  now,  would  Phoebe  her  consent  afford, 
Her  slave  alone,  again  he'd  mount  the  board  ; 
With  her  should  years  of  growing  love  be  spent, 
And  growing  wealth  : — she  sighed,  and  looked  consent. 
Now,  through  the  lane,  up  hill,  and  cross  the  green, 
Seen  by  but  few,  and  blushing  to  be  seen, — 
Dejected,  thoughtful,  anxious,  and  afraid, 
Led  by  the  lover,  walked  the  silent  maid  : 
Slow  through  the  meadows  roved  they,  many  a  mile 
Toyed  by  each  bank  and  trifled  at  each  stile ; 
Where,  as  he  painted  every  blissful  view, 
And  highly  coloured  what  he  strongly  drew, 
The  pensive  damsel,  prone  to  tender  fears, 
Dimmed  the  false  prospect  with  prophetic  tears. — 
Thus  passed  the  allotted  hours,  till  lingering  late, 
The  lover  loitered  at  the  master's  gate  ; 
There  he  pronounced  adieu  !  and  yet  would  stay, 
Till  chidden — soothed — intreated — forced  away ; 
He  would  of  coldness,  though  indulged,  complain 
And  oft  retire  and  oft  return  again  ; 
When,  if  his  teasing  vexed  her  gentle  mind, 
The  grief  assumed,  compelled  her  to  be  kind! 
For  he  would  proof  of  plighted  kindness  crave, 
That  she  resented  first  and  then  forgave, 
And  to  his  grief  and  penance  yielded  more, 
Than  his  presumption  had  required  before. — 
Oh  !  fly  temptation,  youth  ;  refrain  !  refrain, 
Each  yielding  maid  and  each  presuming  swain  ! 

Lo !  now  with  red  rent  cloak,  and  bonnet  black. 


CRABBE.  235 

And  torn  green  gown  loose  hanging  at  her  back, 

One  who  an  infant  in  her  arms  sustains, 

And  seems  in- patience  striving  with  her  pains; 

Pinched  are  her  looks,  as  one  who  pines  for  bread, 

Whose  cares  are  growing  and  whose  hopes  are  fled  ; 

Pale  her  parched  lips,  her  heavy  eyes  sunk  low, 

And  tears  unnoticed  from  their  channels  flow  ; 

Serene  her  manner,  till  some  sudden  pain 

Frets  the  meek  soul,  and  then  she's  calm  again  ; — 

Her  broken  pitcher  to  the  pool  she  takes, 

And  every  step  with  cautious  terror  makes  ; 

For  not  alone  that  infant  in  her  arms, 

But  nearer  cause,  her  anxious  soul  glarms. 

With  water  burdened,  then  she  picks  her  way, 

Slowly  and  cautious,  in  the  clinging  clay  ; 

Till  in  mid  green,  she  trusts  a  place  unsound, 

And  deeply  plunges  in  th'  adhesive  ground  ; 

Thence,  but  with  pain,  her  slender  foot  she  takes, 

While  hope  the  mind,  as  strength  the  frame,  forsakes. 

For  when  so  full  the  cup  of  sorrow  grows, 

Add  but  a  drop,  it  instantly  o'erflows. 

And  now  her  path  but  not  her  peace  she  gains, 

Safe  from  her  task,  but  shivering  with  her  pains; 

Her  home  she  reaches,  open  leaves  the  door, 

And  placing  first  her  infant  on  the  floor, 

She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  wind,  and  sits 

And  sobbing  struggles  with  the  rising  fits: 

In  vain  they  come,  she  feels  the  inflating  grief, 

That  shuts  the  swelling  bosom  from  relief; 

That  speaks  in  feeble  cries  a  soul  distressed, 

Or  the  sad  laugh  that  cannot  be  repressed  ; 

The  neighbour-matron  leaves  her  wheel  and  flies, 


236  CRABBE. 

With  all  the  aid  her  poverty  supplies  ; 
Unfee'd  the  calls  of  Nature  she  obeys. 
Not  led  by  profit,  nor  allured  by  praise; 
And  waiting  long,  till  these  contentions  cease, 
She  speaks  of  comfort,  and  departs  in  peace. 
Friend  of  distress  !  the  mourner  feels  thy  aid, 
She  cannot  pay  thee,  but  thou  wilt  be  paid. 

But  who  this  child  of  weakness,  want,  and  care? 
'Tis  Phoebe  Dawson,  pride  of  Lammas  Fair; 
Who  took  her  lover  for  his  sparkling  eyes, 
Expressions  warm,  and  love-inspiring  lies : 

The  faithless  flatterer  soon  his  vows  forgot, 

A  captious  tyrant  or  a  noisy  sot ; 

If  present,  railing,  till  he  saw  her  pained  ; 

If  absent,  spending  what  their  labours  gained  ; 

Till  that  fair  form  in  want  and  sickness  pined, 

And  hope  and  comfort  fled  that  gentle  mind. 


C  It  A  B  B  E  .  237 


MISERIES  OF  VICE. 


"  What  indeed  I  meant 
At  first  was  vengeance  ;  but  I  long  pursued 
The  pair,  and  1  at  last  their  misery  viewed 
In  that  vile  garret,  which  I  cannot  paint. — 
The  sight  was  loathsome,  and  the  smell  was  faint ; 
And  there  that  wife, — whom  I  had  loved  so  well, 
And  thought  so  happy,  was  condemned  to  dwell ; 
The  gay,  the  grateful  wife,  whom  I  was  glad 
To  see  in  dress  beyond  our  station  clad, 
And  to  behold  among  our  neighbours  fine, 
More  than  perhaps  became  a  wife  of  mine ; 
And  now  among  her  neighbours  to  explore, 
And  see  her  poorest  of  the  very  poor  ! — 
I  would  describe  it,  but  I  bore  a  part, 
Nor  can  explain  the  feelings  of  my  heart ; 
Yet  memory  since  has  aided  me  to  trace 
The  horrid  features  of  that  dismal  place. 
There  she  reclined  unmoved,  her  bosom  bare 
To  her  companion's  unimpassioned  stare, 
And  my  wild  wonder ! — Seat  of  virtue  !  chaste 
As  lovely  once  !  O  how  wert  thou  disgraced ! 
Upon  that  breast,  by  sordid  rags  defiled, 
Lay  the  wan  features  of  a  famished  child  ; — 
That  sin-born  babe  in  utter  misery  laid, 
Too  feebly  wretched  e'en  to  cry  for  aid ; 
The  ragged  sheeting  o'er  her  person  drawn, 
Served  for  the  dress  that  hunger  placed  in  pawn. 

At  the  bed's  feet  the  man  reclined  his  frame : 
Their  chairs  were  perished  to  support  the  flame 


238  CRAB BE. 

That  warmed  his  agued  limbs  ;  and,  sad  to  see. 
That  shook  him  fiercely  as  he  gazed  on  me. 

I  was  confused  in  this  unhappy  view  : 
My  wife  !  my  friend  !  I  could  not  think  it  true  ; 
My  children's  mother, — my  Alicia, — laid 
On  such  a  bed  :  so  wretched,  so  afraid  ! 
And  her  gay,  young  seducer,  in  the  guise 
Of  all  we  dread,  abjure,  defy,  despise, 
And  all  the  fear  and  terror  in  his  look, 
Still  more  my  mind  to  its  foundation  shook. 

At  last  he  spoke : — 'Long  since  I  would  have  died, 
4  But  could  not  leave  her,  though  for  death  I  sighed, 
'  And  tried  the  poisoned  cup,  and  dropped  it  as  I  tried, 
1  She  is  a  woman,  and  that  famished  thing 

*  Makes  her  to  life,  with  all  its  evils,  cling  : 

*  Feed  her,  and  let  her  breathe  her  last  in  peace, 

*  And  all  my  sufferings  with  your  promise  cease! 
Ghastly  he  smiled  : — I  knew  not  what  I  felt, 
But  my  heart  melted — hearts  of  flint  would  melt, 
To  see  their  anguish,  penury,  and  shame, 

How  base,  how  low,  how  grovelling  they  became; 
I  could  not  speak  my  purpose,  but  my  eyes, 
And  my  expression — bade  the  creature  rise. 

Yet,  O  !  that  woman's  look  !  my  words  are  vam 
Her  mixed  and  troubled  feelings  to  explain  ; 
True  there  was  shame  and  consciousness  of  fall, 
But  yet  remembrance  of  my  love  withal, 
And  knowledge  of  that  power  which  she  would  now  recall. 


CRABBE.  239 

But  still  the  more  that  she  to  memory  brought, 

The  greater  anguish  in  my  mind  was  wrought ; 

The  more  she  tried  to  bring  the  past  in  view, 

She  greater  horror  on  the  present  threw  ; 

So  that,  for  love  or  pity,  terror  thrilled 

My  blood,  and  vile  and  odious  thoughts  instilled. 

This  war  within,  those  passions  in  their  strife. 

If  thus  protracted,  had  exhausted  life  ; 

But  the  strong  view  of  these  departed  years, 

Caused  a  full  burst  of  salutary  tears, 

And  as  I  wept  at  large,  and  thought  alone, 

[  felt  my  reason  re-ascend  her  throne.'* 


CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 


SONNET. 


Queen  of  the  silver  bow,  by  thy  pale  beam 

Alone  and  pensive  I  delight  to  stray, 
And  watch  thy  shadow  trembling  in  the  stream, 

Or  mark  the  floating  clouds  that  cross  thy  way. 
And  while  I  gaze,  thy  mild  and  placid  light 

Sheds  a  soft  calm  upon  my  troubled  breast ; 
And  oft  I  think,  fair  planet  of  the  night, 

That  in  thy  orb  the  wretched  may  have  rest ; 
The  sufferers  of  the  earth  perhaps  may  go, 

Released  by  death,  to  thy  benignant  sphere ; 
And  the  sad  children  of  despair  and  wo, 

Forget,  in  thee,  their  cup  of  sorrow  here. 
O  !  that  I  soon  may  reach  thy  world  serene, 

Poor  wearied  pilgrim — in  this  toiling  scene. 


SOUTHEY. 


MOONLIGHT. 


How  calmly  gliding  through  the  dark-blue  sky, 
The  midnight  moon  ascends  !     Her  placid  beams 
Through  thinly  scattered  leaves  and  boughs  grotesque  ; 
Mottle  with  mazy  shades  the  orchard  slope  ; 
Here,  o'er  the  chesnut's  fretted  foliage  gray, 
And  massy,  motionless  they  spread  ;  here  shine 
Upon  the  crags,  deepening  with  blacker  night 
Their  chasms  ;  and  there  the  glittering  argentry 
Ripples  and  glances  on  the  confluent  streams. 
A  lovelier,  purer  light  than  that  of  day 
Rests  on  the  hills  ;  and  oh  how  awfully 
Into  that  deep  and  tranquil  firmament, 
The  summits  of  Auseva  rise  serene  ! 
The  watchman  on  the  battlements  partakes 
21 


242  S  O  U  T  H  E  Y  . 

The  stillness  of  the  solemn  hour ;  he  feels 

The  silence  of  the  earth,  the  endless  sound 

Of  flowing  water  soothes  him,  and  the  stars, 

Which,  in  that  brightest  moonlight  well  nigh  quenched, 

Scarce  visible,  as  in  the  utmost  depth 

Of  yonder  sapphire  infinite,  are  seen, 

Draw  on  with  elevating  influence 

Toward  eternity  the  attempered  mind. 

Musing  on  worlds  beyond  the  grave  he  stands, 

And  to  the  Virgin  Mother  silently, 

Breathes  forth  her  hymn  of  praise 


PfLAYO  MADE  KING. 

Alone,  advanced 
Before  the  ranks,  the  Goth  in  silence  stood, 
While  from  all  voices  round,  loquacious  joy 
Mingled  its  buzz  continuous  wi«.h  the  blast 
Of  horn,  shrill  pipe,  and  tinkling  cymbals'  clash, 
And  sound  of  deafening  drum.     But  when  the  Prince 
Drew  nigh,  and  Urban,  with  the  cross  upheld, 
Stept  forth  to  meet  him,  all  at  once  were  stilled 
With  instantaneous  hush  ;  as  when  the  wind, 
Before  whose  violent  gusts  the  forest  oaks, 
Tossing  like  billows  their  tempestuous  heads, 
Roar  like  a  raging  sea,  suspends  its  force, 
And  leaves  so  dead  a  calm  that  not  a  leaf 
Moves  on  the  silent  spray.     The  passing  air. 
Bore  with  it  from  the  woodland  undisturbed 
The  ring-dove's  wooing,  and  the  quiet  voice 


SOUTHEY.  243 

Of  waters  warbling  near. 

Son  of  a  race 
Of  Heroes  and  of  Kings  !  The  Primate  thus 
Addressed  him,  Thou  in  whom  the  Gothic  blood* 
Mingling  with  old  Iberia's,  has  restored 
To  Spain  a  ruler  of  her  native  line, — 
Stand  forth,  and  in  the  face  of  God  and  man 
Swear  to  uphold  the  right,  abate  the  wrong, 
With  equitable  hand,  protect  the  cross 
Whereon  thy  lips  this  day  shall  seal  their  vow, 
And  underneath  that  hallowed  symbol,  wage 
Holy  and  inextinguishable  war 
Against  the  accursed  nation  that  usurps 
Thy  country's  sacred  soil ! 

So  speak  of  me 
Now  and  for  ever,  O  my  countrymen  ! 
Replied  Pelayo  ;  and  so  deal  with  me 
Here  and  hereafter,  thou,  Almighty  God, 
In  whom  I  put  my  trust ; 

Lord  God  of  Hosts, 
Urban  pursued,  of  Angels  and  of  Men 
Creator  and  Disposer,  King  of  Kings, 
Ruler  of  Earth  and  Heaven,— Look  down  this  day 
And  multiply  thy  blessings  on  the  head 
Of  this  thy  servant,  chosen  in  thy  sight ! 
Be  thou  his  counsellor,  his  comforter, 
His  hope,  his  joy,  his  refuge,  and  his  strength  ! 
Crown  him  with  justice,  and  with  fortitude  ! 
Defend  him  with  thy  all-sufficient  shield, 
Surround  him  every  where  with  the  right  hand 
Of  thine  all-present  power !  and  with  the  might 


244  S  O  U  T  H  B  Y  . 

Of  thine  omnipotence ; — send  in  his  aid 
Thy  unseen  angels  forth,  that  potently 
And  royally  against  all  enemies, 
He  may  endure  and  triumph  !     Bless  the  land 
O'er  which  he  is  appointed  ;  bless  it  with 
The  waters  of  the  firmament,  the  springs 
Of  the  low-lying  deep,  the  fruits  which  sun 
And  moon  mature  for  man,  the  precious  stores 
Of  the  eternal  hills,  and  all  the  gifts 
Of  earth,  its  wealth  and  fulness  ! 

Then  he  took 
Pelayo's  hand,  and  on  his  finger  placed 
The  mystic  circlet.     With  this  ring,  O  Prince, 
To  our  dear  Spain,  who  like  a  widow  now 
Mourneth  in  desolation,  I  thee  wed : 
For  weal  or  wo  thou  takest  her,  till  death 
Dtispart  the  union.     Be  it  blest  to  her, 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  seed. 


MEDITATION. 

Soothed  by  the  strain 
Of  such  discourse,  Julian  was  silent  then, 
And  sate  contemplating.     Florinda  too 
Was  calmed.     If  sore  experience  may  be  thought 
To  teach  the  uses  of  adversity, 
She  said,  alas  !  who  better  learned  than  I 
In  that  sad  school !  Methinks  if  ye  would  know 
How  visitations  of  calamity 
Aflfect  the  pious  soul,  'tis  shown  ye  there  ! 


SOUTHEY.  245 

Look  yonder  at  that  cloud,  which  through  the  sky 
Sailing  alone,  doth  cross  in  her  career 
The  rolling  moon  !  I  watched  it  as  it  came, 
And  deemed  the  deep  opaque  would  blot  her  beams ; 
But,  melting  like  a  wreath  of  snow,  it  hangs 
In  folds  of  wavy  silver  round,  and  clothes 
The  orb  with  richer  beauties  than  her  own, 
Then  passing,  leaves  her  in  her  light  serene. 
Thus  having  said?  the  pious  sufferer  sat, 
Beholding  with  fixed  eyes  that  lovely  orb, 
Till  quiet  tears  confused  in  dizzy  light 
The  broken  moonbeams.     They  too  by  the  toil 
Of  spirit,  as  by  travail  of  the  day 
Subdued,  were  silent,  yielding  to  the  hour. 
The  silver  cloud  diffusing  slowly  past, 
And  now  into  its  airy  elements 
Resolved  is  gone  ;  while  through  the  azure  depth 
Alone  in  heaven  the  glorious  moon  pursues 
Her  course,  appointed,  with  indifferent  beams 
Shining  upon  the  silent  hills  around, 
And  the  dark  tents  of  that  unholy  host, 
Who,  all  unconscious  of  impending  fate, 
Take  their  last  slumber  there.     The  camp  is  still, 
The  fires  have  mouldered,  and  the  breeze  whi7Ji  stirs 
The  soft  and  snowy  embers,  just  lays  bare, 
At  times  a  red  and  evanescent  light, 
Or  for  a  moment  wakes  a  feeble  flame, 
They  by  the  fountain  hear  the  stream  below, 
Whose  murmurs,  as  the  wind  arose  or  fell, 
Fuller  or  fainter,  reach  the  ear  attuned. 
And  now  the  nightingale,  not  distant  far, 
Began  her  solitary  song ;  and  poured 
21* 


246  S  O  U  T  H  E  Y  • 

To  the  cold  moon  a  richer,  stronger  strain, 
Than  that  with  which  the  lyric  lark  salutes 
The  new-born  day.     Her  deep  and  thrilling  song 
Seemed  with  its  piercing  melody  to  reach 
The  soul,  and  in  mysterious  unison 
Blend  with  all  thoughts  of  gentleness  and  love. 
Their  hearts  were  open  to  the  healing  power 
Of  nature  ;  and  the  splendour  of  the  night. 
The  flow  of  waters,  and  that  sweetest  lay 
Came  to  them  like  a  copious  evening  dew, 
Falling  on  vernal  herbs  which  thirst  for  rain. 


THE  VALE  OF  COVADONGO 

There  was  a  stirring  in  the  air,  the  sun 
Prevailed,  and  gradually  the  brightening  mist 
T*egan  to  rise  and  melt.     A  jutting  crag 
Upon  the  right  projected  o'er  the  stream, 
Not  farther  from  the  cave  than  a  strong  hand 
Expert,  with  deadly  aim,  might  cast  the  spear, 
Or  a  strong  voice,  pitched  to  full  compass,  make 
Its  elear  articulation  heard  distinct. 
A  venturous  dalesman,  once  ascending  there 
To  rob  the  eagle's  nest,  had  fallen,  and  hung 
Among  the  heather,  wondrously  preserved  : 
Therefore  had  he  with  pious  gratitude 
Placed  on  that  overhanging  brow  a  cross, 
Tall  as  the  mast  of  some  light  fisher's  skiff, 
\  nd  from  the  vale  conspicuous.     As  the  Moors 
Advanced,  the  chieftain  in  the  van  was  seen, 
Known  by  his  arms,  and  from  the  crag  a  voice 


SOU  THEY.  247 

Pronounced  his  name — Alcahman,  hoa  !  look  up, 

Alcahman !     As  the  floating  mist  drew  up, 

It  had  divided  there,  and  opened  round 

The  cross  ;  part  clinging  to  the  rock  beneath, 

Hovering  and  waving  part  in  fleecy  folds, 

A  canopy  of  silver  light,  condensed 

To  shape  and  substance.     In  the  midst  there  stood 

A  female  form,  one  hand  upon  the  cross, 

The  other  raised  in  menacing  act :  below 

Loose  flowed  her  raiment,  but  her  breast  was  armed, 

And  helmeted  her  head.     The  Moor  turned  pale; 

For  on  the  walls  of  Auria  he  had  seen 

That  well-known  figure,  and  had  well  believed 

She  rested  with  the  dead.     What,  hoa !  she  cried  ; 

Alcahman  !     In  the  name  of  all  who  fell 

At  Auria  in  the  massacre,  this  hour 

]  summon  thee  before  the  throne  of  God, 

To  answer  for  the  innocent  blood  !     This  hour, 

Moor,  Miscreant,  Murderer,  Child  of  Hell,  this  hour 

1  summon  thee  to  judgment !     In  the  name 

Of  God  !  for  Spain  and  vengeance  ! 

Thus  she  closed 
Her  speech  ;  for,  taking  from  the  Primate's  hand 
That  oaken  cross,  which  at  the  sacring  rites 
Had  served  for  crosier,  at  the  cavern's  mouth 
Pelayo  lifted  it,  and  gave  the  word. 
From  voice  to  voice  on  either  side  it  past 
With  rapid  repetition — In  the  name 
Of  God  !  for  Spain  and  vengeance  !  and  forthwith 
On  either  side,  along  the  whole  defile, 
The  Asturians  shouting  in  the  name  of  God, 
Set  the  whole  ruin  loose  !  huge  trunks  and  stones, 


248  S  O  U  T  H  E  Y  . 

And  loosened  crags,  down,  down  they  rolled  with  rush 

And  bound,  and  thundering  force.     Such  was  the  fall, 

As  when  some  city,  by  the  labouring  earth 

Heaved  from  its  strong  foundations  is  cast  down, 

And  all  its  dwellings,  towers,  and  palaces 

In  one  wide  desolation  prostrated. 

From  end  to  end  of  that  long  strait,  the  crash 

Was  heard  continuous,  and  comniixt  with  sounds 

More  dreadful — shrieks  of  horror,  and  despair, 

And  death — the  wild  and  agonizing  cry 

Of  that  whole  host  in  one  destruction  whelmed. 

Vain  was  all  valour  there,  all  martial  skill ; 

The  valiant  arm  is  helpless  now  ;   the  feet 

Swift  in  the  race,  avail  not  now  to  save ; 

They  perish,  all  their  thousands  perish  there; 

Horsemen  and  infantry,  they  perish  all, — 

The  outward  armour,  and  the  bones  within, 

Broken,  and  bruised,  and  crushed.     Echo  prolonged 

The  long  uproar :  a  silence  then  ensued, 

Through  which  the  sound  of  Deva's  stream  was  heard, 

A  lonely  voice  of  waters,  wild  and  sweet. 

The  lingering  groan,  the  faintly-uttered  prayer, 

The  louder  curses  of  despairing  death, 

Ascended  not  so  high.     Down  from  the  cave 

Pelayo  hastes,  the  Asturians  hasten  down  ; 

Fierce  and  unmitigrible,  down  they  speed 

On  all  sides,  and  along  the  vale  of  blood 

The  avenging  sword  did  mercy's  work  that  hour. 


SOUTHEY.  249 


POVERTY. 


Aye,  Idleness !  the  rich  folks  never  fail 
To  find  some  reason  why  the  poor  deserve 
Their  miseries  ! — Is  it  idleness,  I  pray  you, 
That  brings  the  fever  or  the  ague  fit  f 
That  makes  the  sick  one's  sickly  appetite 
Turn  at  the  dry  bread  and  potato  meal? 
Is  it  idleness  that  makes  small  wages  fail 
For  growing  wants  1     Six  years  ago,  these  bells 
Rung  on  my  wedding-day,  and  I  was  told 
What  I  might  look  for, — but  I  did  not  heed 
Good  counsel.     I  had  lived  in  service,  Sir, 
Knew  never  what  it  was  to  want  a  meal ; 
Laid  down  without  one  thought  to  keep  me  sleepless, 
Or  trouble  me  in  sleep ;  had  for  a  Sunday 
My  linen  gown,  and  when  the  pedlar  came 
Could  buy  me  a  new  ribbon.     And  my  husband, 
A  toward  ly  young  man  and  well  to  do. 
He  had  his  silver  buckles  and  his  watch  ; 
There  was  not  in  the  village  one  who  looked 
Sprucer  on  holidays.     We  married,  Sir,     -. 
And  we  had  children,  but  as  wants  increased 
Wages  did  not.     The  silver  buckles  went, 
So  went  the  watch ;  and  when  the  holiday  coat 
Was  worn  to  work,  uo  new  one  in  its  place. 
For  me — you  see  my  rags  !  but  I  deserve  them. 
For  wilfully,  like  this  new-married  pair, 
I  went  to  my  undoing. 

But  the  Parish — 
Aye,  it  fills  heavy  there  ;  and  yet  their  pittance 


250  SOUTHEY. 

Just  serves  to  keep  life  in.     A  blessed  prospect, 
To  slave  while  there  is  strength,  in  age  the  workhouse, 
A  parish  shell  at  last,  and  the  little  bell 
Tolled  hastily  for  a  pauper's  funeral ! 

Is  this  your  child? 

Aye,  Sir ;  and  were  he  drest 
And  cleaned,  he'd  be  as  fine  a  boy  to  look  on 
As  the  Squire's  young  master.     These  thin  rags  of  his 
Let  comfortably  in  the  summer  wind  ; 
But  when  the  winter  comes,  it  pinches  me 
To  see  the  little  wretch  !     I've  three  besides ; 
And,  God  forgive  me  !  but  I  often  wish 
To  see  them  in  their  coffins. 


SLAVERY. 

'Tis  night;  the  mercenary  tyrants  sleep 
As  undisturbed  as  Justice  !  but  no  more 
The  wretched  slave,  as  on  his  native  shore, 
Rests  on  his_reedy  couch  :  he  wakes  to  weep! 
Though  through  the  toil  and  anguish  of  the  day 
No  tear  escaped  him,  not  one  suffering  groan 
Beneath  the  twisted  thong,  he  weeps  alone 
In  bitterness;  thinking  that  far  away 
Though  the  gay  Negroes  join  the  midnight  song, 
Though  merriment  resounds  on  Niger's  shore, 
She  whom  he  loves,  far  from  the  cheerful  throng 
Stands  sad,  and  gazes  from  her  lowly  door 
With  dim-grown  eye,  silent  and  wo-begone, 
And  weeps  for  him  who  will  return  no  more. 


SOU  THEY  251 


INSCRIPTION. 


Pizarro  here  was  born ;  a  greater  name 
The  list  of  glory  boasts  not.     Toil  and  pain, 
Famine,  and  hostile  elements,  and  hosts 
Embattled,  failed  to  check  him  in  his  course ; 
Not  to  be  wearied,  not  to  be  deterred, 
Not  to  be  overcome.     A  mighty  realm 
He  overran,  and  with  relentless  arms 
Slew  or  enslaved  its  unoffending  sons, 
And  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame,  were  his  rewards. 
There  is  another  world,  beyond  the  grave, 
According  to  their  deeds  where  men  are  judged, 
O  Reader  !  if  thy  daily  bread  be  earned 
By  daily  labour, — yea,  however  low, 
However  wretched  be  thy  lot  assigned, 
Thank  thou,  with  deepest  gratitude,  the  God 
Who  made  thee,  that  thou  art  not  such  as  he 


COLERIDGE 


TIIE  NIGHTINGALE. 


No  cloud,  no  relique  of  the  sunken  day 
Distinguishes  the  West,  no  long  thin  slip 
Of  sullen  light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 
Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old,  mossy  bridge  1 
You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath, 
But  hear  no  murmuring:  it  flows  silently 
O'er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.     All  is  still, 
A  balmy  night !  and  tho'  the  stars  be  dim, 
Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 
That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  find 
A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 
And  hark  !  the  Nightingale  begins  its  song, 
"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy"  Bird  ! 
A  melancholy  Bird  ?     Oh  !  idle  thought ! 
In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 
But  some  night-wandering  man,  whose  heart  was  pie.  ced 
With  the  resemblance  of  a  grievous  wrong, 
Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love, 
'And  so,  poor  wretch !  filled  all  things  with  himself 


COLERIDGE.  253 

And  made  all  gentle  sounds  lell  back  the  tale 

Of  his  own  sorrow)  he,  and  such  as  he, 

First  named  these  notes  a  melancholy  strain  : 

And  many  a  poet  echoes  the  conceit ; 

Poet  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 

When  he  had  better  far  have  stretched  his  limbs 

Beside  a  brook  in  mossy  forest-dell, 

By  sun  or  moon-light,  to  the  influxes 

Of  shapes,  and  sounds,  and  shifting  elements 

Surrendering  his  whole  spirit,  of  his  song 

And  of  his  fame  forgetful !     So  his  fame 

Should  share  in  Nature's  immortality, 

A  venerable  thing !  and  so  his  song 

Should  make  all  Nature  lovelier,  and  itself 

Be  loved  like  Nature  !  But  'twill  not  be  so ; 

And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical, 

Who  lose  the  deepening  twilights  of  the  spring 

In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still 

Full  of  meek  sympathy  must  heave  their  sighs 

O'er  Philomela's  pity-pleading  strains. 

My  Friend,  and  thou,  our  Sister  !  we  have  learnt 

A  different  lore  :  we  may  not  thus  profane 

Nature's  sweet  voices,  always  full  of  love 

And  joyance  !  'Tis  the  merry  Nightingale 

That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 

With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 

As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 

Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 

His  love-chaunt,  and  disburden  his  full  soul 

Of  all  its  music ! 

And  I  know  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge, 
22 


254  COLERIDGE- 

Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not ;  and  so 

This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood, 

And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass, 

Thin  grass  and  king-cups  grow  within  the  paths. 

But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 

So  many  Nightingales ;  and  far  and  near, 

In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove, 

They  answer  and  provoke  each  other's  songs, 

With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 

And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug  jug, 

And  one,  low  piping,  sounds  more  sweet  than  all, 

Stirring  the  air  with  such  an  harmony, 

That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  almost 

Forget  it  was  not  day !  On  moonlight  bushes, 

Whose  dewy  leafits  are  but  half  disclosed, 

You  may  perchance  behold  them  on  the  twigs, 

Their  bright,  bright  eyes,  their  eyes  both  bright  and  full 

Glistening,  while  many  a  glow-worm  in  the  shade 

Lights  up  her  love-torch. 

A  most  gentle  Maid, 
Who  dwelleth  in  her  hospitable  home 
Hard  by  the  castle,  and  at  latest  eve 
(Even  like  a  lady  vowed  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  Nature  in  the  grove) 
Glides  thro'  the  pathways  ;  she  knows  all  their  notes. 
That  gentle  Maid!  and  oft  a  moment's  space, 
What  time  the  Moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence  ;  till  the  Moon 
Emerging,  hath  awakened  eaith  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  Birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy, 
As  if  one  quick  and  sudden  gale  had  swept 


COLERIDGE  255 

An  hundred  airy  harps  !     And  she  hnth  watched 
Many  a  Nightingale  perch  giddily, 
On  blos'my  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze, 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song 
Like  tipsy  joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 

Farewell,  O  Warbler  !  till  to-morrow  eve, 
And  you,  my  friends  !  farewell,  a  short  farewell ! 
We  have  been  loitering  long  and  pleasantly, 
And  now  for  our  dear  homes. — That  strain  again? 
Full  fain  it  would  delay  me  !     My  dear  babe, 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound, 
Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp, 
How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear, 
His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up, 
And  bid  us  listen  !     And  I  deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  Nature's  play-mate.     He  knows  well 
The  evening-star ;  and  once,  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood,  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant's  dream) 
I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard-plot, 
And  he  beheld  the  Moon,  and,  hushed  at  once, 
Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently, 
While  his  fair  eyes,  that  swam  with  undropt  tears, 
Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  moon-beam  !     Well  !— 
It  is  a  father's  tale  :  But  if  that  Heaven 
Should  give  me  life,  his  childhood  shall  grow  up 
Familiar  with  these  songs,  that  with  the  night 
He  may  associate  joy  !     Once  more  farewell, 
Sweet  Nightingale  !     Once  more,  my  friends,  farewell. 


WORDSWORTH 


THE  OLD  CUMBERLAND  BEGOA* 


1  saw  an  aged  Beggar  in  my  walk  ; 
And  he  was  seated,  by  the  highway  side, 
On  a  low  structure  of  rude  masonry 
Built  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  hill,  that  they 
Who  lead  their  horses  down  the  steep  rough  rofcd 
May  thence  remount  at  ease.     The  aged  Man 
Had  placed  his  staff  across  the  broad  smooth  stone 
That  overlays  the  pile  ;  and,  from  a  bag 
All  white  with  flour,  the  dole  of  village  dfmes, 
He'drew  his  scraps  and  fragments,  one  by  one; 
And  scanned  them  with  a  fixed  and  serious  look 
Of  idle  computation.     In  the  sun, 
Upon  the  second  step  of  that  small  pile, 
Ntiirounded  by  those  wild  unpeopled  hills, 
He  sat,  and  ate  his  food  in  solitude  ; 
\nd  ever,  scattered  from  his  palsied  hand, 
That,  still  attempting  to  prevent  the  waste, 
Was  baffled  still,  the  crumbs  in  little  showers 


WORDSWORTH.  257 

Fell  on  the  ground  ;  and  the  small  mountain-birds, 
Not  venturing  yet  to  peck  their  destined  meal, 
Approached  within  the  length  of  half  his  staff. 

Him  from  my  childhood  have  I  known  ;  and  then 
He  was  so  old,  he  seems  not  older  now ; 
He  travels  on,  a  solitary  Man, 
So  helpless  in  appearance,  that  for  him 
The  sauntering  horseman-traveller  does  not  throw 
With  careless  hand  his  alms  upon  the  ground, 
But  stops, — that  he  may  safely  lodge  the  coin 
Within  the  old  Man's  hat ;  nor  quits  him  so, 
But  still,  when  he  has  given  his  horse  the  rein, 
Watches  the  aged  Beggar  with  a  look 
Sidelong — and  half  reverted.     She  who  tends 
The  toll-gate,  when  in  summer  at  her  door 
She  turns  her  wheel,  if  on  the  road  she  sees 
The  aged  Beggar  coming,  quits  her  work, 
And  lifts  the  latch  for  him  that  he  may  pass. 
The  post-boy,  when  his  rattling  wheels  o'ertake 
The  aged  Beggar  in  the  woody  lane, 
Shouts  to  him  from  behind ;  and,  if  thus  warned 
The  old  Man  does  not  change  his  course,  the  Boy 
Turns  with  less  noisy  wheels  to  the  road-side, 
And  passes  gently  by — without  a  curse 
Upon  his  lips,  or  anger  at  his  heart. 
He  travels  on,  a  solitary  Man  ; 
His  age  has  no  companion.     On  the  ground 
His  eyes  are  turned,  and,  as  he  moves  along, 
They  move  along  the  ground  ;  and,  evermore, 
Instead  of  common  and  habitual  sight 
Of  fields  with  rural  works,  of  hill  and  dale, 
22* 


868  wordswortii. 

And  the  blue  sky,  one  little  span  of  earth 
Is  all  his  prospect.     Thus,  from  day  to  day, 
Bow-bent,  his  eyes  for  ever  on  the  ground, 
He  plies  his  weary  journey :  seeing  still, 
And  seldom  knowing  that  he  sees,  some  straw, 
Some  scattered  leaf,  or  marks  which,  in  one  track 
The  nails  of  cart  or  chariot  wheel  have  left 
Impressed  on  the  white  road, — in  the  same  line, 
At  distance  still  the  same.     Poor  Traveller  ! 
His  staff  trails  with  him  ;  scarcely  do  his  feet 
Disturb  the  summer  dust ;   he  is  so  still 
In  look  and  motion,  and  the  cottage  curs, 
Ere  he  have  passed  the  door,  will  turn  away, 
Weary  of  barking  at  him.     Boys  and  girls, 
The  vacant  and  the  busy,  Maids  and  Youths, 
And  Urchins  newly  breeched — all  pass  him  by 
Him  even  the  slow  paced  wagon  leaves  behind. 

But  deem  not  this  Man  useless, — Statesmen  i     u 
Who  are  so  restless  in  your  wisdom,  ye 
Who  have  a  broom  still  ready  in  your  hands 
To  rid  the  world  of  nuisances  ;  ye  proud, 
Heart-swoln,  while  in  your  pride  ye  contemplate  ■ 
Your  talents,  power,  and  wisdom,  deem  him  not 
A  burden  of  the  earth  !  'Tis  nature's  law 
That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things, 
Of  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute, 
The  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good — a  spirit  and  pulse  of  good, 
A  life  and  soul,  to  every  mode  of  being 
Inseparably  linked.     While  thus  he  creeps 
From  door  to  door,  the  villagers  in  him 


wok  ps  vvoy  |  u.  259 

Behold  a  record  which  together  hinds 

Past  deeds  and  offices  of  charity, 

Else  unremembered,  and  so  keeps  alive 

The  kindly  mood  in  hearts  which  lapse  of  years, 

And  that  half  wisdom  half  experience  gives, 

Make  slow  to  feel,  and  by  sure  steps  resign 

To  selfishness  and  cold  oblivious  cares. 

Among  the  farms  and  solitary  huts, 

Hamlets  and  thinly  scattered  villages, 

Where'er  the  aged  Beggar  takes  his  rounds, 

The  mild  necessity  of  use  compels 

To  acts  of  love  ;  and  habit  does  the  work 

Of  reason  ;  yet  prepares  that  after-joy, 

Which  reason  cherishes.     And  thus  the  soul, 

By  that  sweet  taste  of  pleasure  unpursued, 

Doth  find  itself  insensibly  disposed 

To  virtue  and  true  goodness.     Some  there  are, 

By  their  good  works  exalted,  lofty  minds 

And  meditative,  authors  of  delight 

And  happiness,  which  to  the  end  of  time 

Will  live  and  spread  and  kindle  :  even  such  minds 

In  childhood,  from  this  solitary  Being, 

Or  from  like  Wanderer,  haply  have  received 

(A  thing  more  precious  far  than  all  that  books 

Or  the  solicitudes  of  love  can  do  !) 

That  first  mild  touch  of  sympathy  and  thought, 

In  which  they  found  their  kindred  with  a  world 

Where  want  and  sorrow  were.     The  easy  man 

Who  sits  at  his  own  door, — and  like  the  pear 

That  overhangs  his  head  from  the  green  wall, 

Feeds  in  the  sunshine  ;  the  robust  and  young, 

The  prosperous  and  unthinking,  they  who  live, 


^■'00  WORDSWORTH. 

Sheltered,  and  flourish  ia  a  little  grove 

Of  their  own  kindred  ; — all  behold  in  him 

A  silent  monitor,  which  on  their  minds 

Must  needs  impress  a  transitory  thought 

Of  self- congratulation,  to  the  heart 

Of  each  recalling  his  peculiar  boons, 

His  charters  and  exemptions  ;  and  perchance, 

Though  he  to  no  one  give  the  fortitude 

And  circumspection  needful  to  preserve 

His  present  blessings,  and  to  husband  up 

The  respite  of  the  season,  he,  at  least, 

And  'tis  no  vulgar  service,  makes  them  felt. 

Yet  further. — Many,  I  believe,  there  are 

Who  live  a  life  of  virtuous  decency, 

Men,  who  can  hear  the  Decalogue  and  feel 

No  self-reproach  ;  who  of  the  moral  law 

Established  in  the  land  where  they  abide 

Are  strict  observers  ;  and  not  negligent, 

In  acts  of  love  to  those  with  whom  they  dwell, 

Their  kindred  and  the  children  of  their  blood. 

Praise  be  to  such,  and  to  their  slumbers  peace  • 

— But  of  the  poor  man  ask,  the  abject  poor: 

Go,  and  demand  of  him,  if  there  be  here, 

In  this  cold  abstinence  from  evil  deeds, 

And  these  inevitable  charities, 

Wherewith  to  satisfy  the  human  soul? 

No — Man  is  dear  to  Man  ;  the  poorest  poor 

Long  for  some  moments  in  a  weary  life 

When  they  can  know  and  feel  that  they  have  been, 

Themselves,  the  fathers  and  the  dealers-out 

Of  some  small  blessings  ;  have  Deen  kind  to  such 

As  needed  kindness,  for  this  single  cause, 


WORDSWORTH.  261 

That  we  have  all  of  us  one  human  heart. 

— Such  pleasure  is  to  one  kind  Being  known, 

My  neighbour,  when  with  punctual  care,  each  weel 

Duly  as  Friday  comes,  though  prest  herself 

By  her  own  wants,  she  from  her  store  of  meal 

Takes  one  unsparing  handful  for  the  scrip 

Of  this  old  Mendicant,  and,  from  her  door 

Returning  with  exhilarated  heart, 

Sits  by  her  fire,  and  builds  her  hope  in  Heaven 

Then  let  liiin  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head  ! 
And  while  in  that  vast  solitude  to  which 
The  tide  of  things  has  borne  him,  he  appears 
To  breathe  and  live  but  for  himself  alone, 
Unblamed,  uninjured,  let  him  bear  about 
The  good  which  the  benignant  law  of  Heaven 
Has  hung  around  him :  and,  while  life  is  his, 
Still  let  him  prompt  the  unlettered  villagers 
To  tender  offices  and  pensive  thoughts. 
— Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head ! 
And,  long  as  he  can  wander,  let  him  breathe 
The  freshness  of  the  valleys;  let  his  blood 
Struggle  with  frosty  air  and  winter  snows  ; 
And  let  the  chartered  wind  that  sweeps  the  heath 
Beat  his  gray  locks  against  his  withered  face. 
Reverence  the  hope  whose  vital  anxiousness 
Gives  the  last  human  interest  to  his  heart. 
May  never  House,  misnamed  of  Industry. 
Make  him  a  captive  !  for  that  pent-up  din, 
Those  life  consuming  sounds  that  clog  the  air, 
Be  his  the  natural  silence  of  old  age  ! 
Let  him  be  free  of  mountain  solitudes  ; 


262  WORDSWORTH. 

And  have  around  him,  whether  heard  or  not, 
The  pleasant  melody  of  woodland  birds. 
Few  are  his  pleasures  :  if  his  eyes  have  now 
Been  doomed  so  long  to  settle  on  the  earth 
That  not  without  some  effort  they  behold 
The  countenance  of  the  horizontal  sun, 
Rising  or  setting,  let  the  light  at  least 
Find  a  free  entrance  to  their  languid  orbs. 
And  let  him,  where  and  when  he  will,  sit  down 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  grassy  bank 
Of  highway  side,  and  with  the  little  birds 
Share  Ins  chance-gathered  meal ;  and,  finally, 
As  in  the  eye  of  Nature  he  has  lived, 
So  in  the  eye  of  Nature  let  him  die  1 


WORDSWORTH.  263 


THE  FRENCH  ARMY  IN  RUSSIA 


Humanity,  delighting  to  behold 

A  fond  reflection  of  her  own  decay, 
Hath  painted  Winter  like  a  Traveller — old, 

Propped  on  a  staff — and,  through  the  sullen  day, 
In  hooded  mantle,  limping  o'er  the  plain, 
As  though  his  weakness  were  disturbed  by  pain : 
Or,  if  a  juster  fancy  should  allow 

An  undisputed  symbol  of  command, 
The  chosen  sceptre  is  a  withered  bough, 

Infirmly  grasped  within  a  palsied  hand. 
These  emblems  suit  the  helpless  and  forlorn, 
But  mighty  Winter  the  device  shall  scorn. 

For  he  it  was — dread  Winter  !  who  beset — 
Flinging  round  van  and  rear  his  ghastly  net — 
That  host, — when  from  the  regions  of  the  Pole 
They  shrunk,  insane  ambition's  barren  goal, 
That  Host,  as  huge  and  strong  as  e'er  defied 
Their  God,  and  placed  their  trust  in  human  pride. 
As  fathers  persecute  rebellious  sons, 
He  smote  the  blossoms  of  their  warrior  youth  ; 
He  called  on  Frost's  inexorable  tooth 
Life  to  consume  in  manhood's  firmest  hold; 
Nor  spared  the  reverend  blood  that  feebly  runs  , 
For  why,  unless  for  liberty  enrolled 
And  sacred  home,  ah  !  why  should  hoiry  Age  be  bold  ? 


264  WORDSWORTH. 

Fleet  the  Tartar's  reinless  steed, 
But  fleeter  far  the  pinions  of  the  Wind, 
Which  from  Siberian  caves  the  Monarch  freed, 
And  sent  him  forth,  with  squadrons  of  his  kind, 
And  bade  the  Snow  their  ample  backs  bestride, 

And  to  the  battle  ride. 
No  pitying  voice  commands  a  halt, 
No  courage  can  repel  the  dire  assault ; 
Distracted,  spiritless,  benumbed,  and  blind, 
Whole  legions  sink — and,  in  one  instant,  find 
Burial  and  death :  look  for  them — and  descry. 
When  morn  returns,  beneath  the  clear  blue  sky 
A  soundless  waste,  a  trackless  vacancy ' 


WORDSWORTH.  265 


LUCY. 


Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said  "  A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 
This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  Lady  of  my  own. 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse :  and  with  me, 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bow«r, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power, 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  Fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm, 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  floating  Clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see, 
Even  in  thd  motions  of  the  Storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 
23 


266  w  o  n  i»sw  n  rth  . 

The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  deaj 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place, 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  bonn  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 


And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give, 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 


Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done- 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene  ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


WORDSWORTH.  267 


TO  A  LADY. 


Dear  Child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail ! 
—There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A  harbour  and  a  hold, 
Where  thou,  a  Wife  and  Friend,  shall  see 
Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 

A  light  to  young  and  old. 


There  healthy  as  a  shepherd-boy, 
And  treading  among  flowers  of  joy, 

That  at  no  season  fade, 
Thou,  while  thy  Babes  around  thee  cling, 
Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 

A  Woman  may  be  made. 


Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not  die, 
Nor  leave  thee  when  gray  hairs  are  nigh 

A  melancholy  slave ; 
But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 
And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night, 

Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 


SCOTT. 


THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  coldv 
The  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old  ; 
His  withered  cheek,  and  tresses  gray, 
Seemed  to  have  known  a  better  day  ; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy ; 
The  last  of  all  the  Bards  was  he, 
Who  snnff  of  Border  chivalry. 
For,  well       ay!  their  date  was  fled, 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead  ; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed, 
Wished  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 
No  more  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 
He  carolled,  light  aa  lark  at  morn, 
No  longer  courted  and  caressed, 
High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest, 
He  poured,  to  lord  and  lady  gay, 
The  unpremeditated  lay  : 


scott.  269 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone, 
A  stranger  filled  the  Stuarts'  throne  ; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time, 
Had  called  his  harmless  art  a  crime, 
A  wandering  Harper,  scorned  and  poor, 
He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door ; 
And  tuned  to  please  a  peasant's  ear, 
The  harp,  a  king  had  loved  to  hear. 

He  passed  where  Newark's  stately  tower 
Looks  out  from  Yarrow's  birchen  bower : 
The  Minstrel  gazed  with  wistful  eye — 
No  humbler  resting-place  was  nigh. 
With  hesitating  step,  at  last, 
The  embattled  portal-arch  he  passed, 
Whose  ponderous  grate  and  massy  bar 
Had  oft  rolled  back  the  tide  of  war, 
But  never  closed  the  iron  door 
Against  the  desolate  and  poor. 
The  duchess  marked  his  weary  pace, 
His  timid  mein,  and  reverend  face, 
And  bade  her  page  the  menials  tell, 
That  they  should  tend  the  old  man  well ; 
For  she  had  known  adversity, 
Though  born  in  such  a  high  degree ; 
In  pride  of  power,  in  beauty's  bloom, 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb ! 

When  kindness  had  his  wants  supplied, 
And  the  old  man  was  gratified, 
Began  to  rise  his  minstrel  pride : 
And  he  began  to  talk  anon, 

2H* 


270  SCOTT. 

Of  good  earl  Francis,  dead  and  gone, 

And  of  earl  Walter,  rest  him  God ! 

A  braver  ne'er  to  battle  rode  : 

And  how,  full  many  a  tale  he  knew, 

Of  the  old  warriors  of  Buccleugh  ; 

And,  would  the  noble  duchess  deign 

To  listen  to  an  old  man's  strain, 

Though  stiff  his  hand,  his  voice  though  weak, 

He  thought  even  yet,  the  sooth  to  speak, 

That,  if  she  loved  the  harp  to  hear,. 

He  could  make  music  to  her  ear. 

The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtai*«d, 
The  aged  minstrel  audience  gained. 
But,  when  he  reached  the  room  of  8**H» 
Where  she,  with  all  her  ladies,  sate, 
Perchance  he  wished  his  boon  denied* 
For,  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried, 
His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease, 
Which  marks  security  to  please  ; 
And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain, 
Came  wildering  o'er  his  aged  brain- 
He  tried  to  tune  his  harp  in  vain. 
The  pitying  duchess  praised  its  chime, 
And  gave  him  heart,  and  gave  him  tim» 
Till  every  string's  according  glee 
Was  blended  into  harmony. 
And  then,  he  said,  he  would  full  fain 
He  could  recall  an  ancient  strain, 
He  never  thought  to  sing  again. 
It  was  not  framed  for  village  chu/ls, 
But  for  high  dames  and  mighty  earls  ; 


SCOTT.  271 

He  had  played  it  to  King  Charles  the  Good, 
When  he  kept  court  at  Holyrood  ; 
And  much  he  wished,  yet  feared,  to  try 
The  long  forgotten  melody. 

Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  strayed, 
And  an  uncertain  warbling  made, 
And  oft  he  shook  his  hoary  head. 
But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild, 
The  old  man  raised  his  face,  and  smiled  ; 
And  lightened  up  his  faded  eye, 
With  all  a  poet's  ecstacy  ! 
In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong, 
He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along  J 
The  present  scene,  the  future  lot, 
His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot : 
Cold  diffidence,  and  age's  frost, 
In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost : 
Each  blank,  in  faithless  memory  void, 
The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied  ; 
And,  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 
Twas  thus  the  latest  minstrel  sung. 


272 


8C0TT. 


THE  TOMB  OP  MICHAEL  SCOTT. 


By  a  steel-clenched  postern  door, 

They  entered  now  the  chancel  tall  ,• 
The  darkened  roof  rose  high  aloof 

On  pillars,  lofty,  and  light,  and  small; 
The  key-stone  that  locked  each  ribbed  ai»W 
Was  a  fleur-de-lys,  or  a  quatre  feuille  ; 
The  corbels  were  carved  grotesque  and  yrina- 
And  the  pillars  with  clustered  shafts  so  trim, 
With  base  and  with  capital  flourished  around. 
Seemed  bundles  of  lances  which  garlands  hadi  Mind. 

Full  many  a  scutcheon  and  banner,  riven, 
Shook  to  the  cold  night-wind  of  heaven, 

Around  the  screened  altar's  pale  ; 
And  there  the  dying  lamps  did  burn, 
Before  thy  low  and  lonely  urn, 
O  gallant  chief  of  Otterburne, 

And  thine,  dark  knight  of  Liddesdale  i 
O  fading  honours  of  the  dead  ! 
O  high  ambition,  lowly  laid ! 

The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone, 
Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 

By  foliage  tracery  combined  ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  thought  some  fairy's  hand 
'Twixt  poplars  straight  the  ozier  wand, 

In  many  a  freakish  knot,  had  twined; 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was  done. 
And  changed  the  willow  wreaths  to  stone. 


scott.  273 

The  silver  light  so  pale  and  faint, 

Showed  many  a  prophet,  and  many  a  saint, 

Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed  ; 

Full  in  the  midst  his  cross  of  red 

Triumphant  Michael  brandished 
And  trampled  the  apostate's  pride. 

The  moon-beam  kissed  the  holy  pane, 

And  threw  on  the  pavement  a  bloody  stain. 

They  sate  them  down  on  a  marble  stone, 

A  Scottish  monarch  slept  below ; 
Thus  spoke  the  monk,  in  solemn  tone : — 

"  I  was  not  always  a  man  of  wo  ; 
For  Paynim  countries  I  have  trod, 
And  fought  beneath  the  Cross  of  God  ; 
Now,  strange  to  mine  eyes  thine  arms  appear, 
And  their  iron  clang  sounds  strange  to  my  ear. 

"  In  these  fair  climes,  it  was  my  lot 
To  meet  the  wondrous  Michael  Scott ; 

A  wizard  of  such  dreaded   fame, 
That  when,  in  Salamanca's  cave, 
Him  listed  his  magic  wand  to  wave, 

The  bells  would  ring  in  Notre  Dame  ! 
Some  of  his  skill  he  taught  to  me  ; 
And,  warrior,  I  could  say  to  thee 
The  words  that  cleft  Eildon  hills  in  three, 

And  bridled  the  Tweed  with  a  curb  of  stone : 
But  to  speak  them  were  a  deadly  sin  ; 
And  for  having  but  thought  them  my  heart  within, 

A  treble  penance  must  be  done. 


274  scott. 

"  When  Michael  lay  on  his  dying  bed, 

His  conscience  was  awakened  ; 

He  bethought  him  of  his  sinful  deed, 

And  he  gave  me  a  sign  to  come  with  speed  ; 

I  was  in  Spain  when  the  morning  rose, 

But  I  stood  by  his  bed  ere  evening  close. 

The  words  may  not  again  be  said, 

That  he  spoke  to  me,  on  death-bed  laid  ; 

They  would  rend  this  abbaye's  massy  nave, 

And  pile  it  in  heaps  above  his  grave. 

"  I  swore  to  bury  his  Mighty  Book, 

That  never  mortal  might  therein  look  ; 

And  never  to  tell  where  it  was  hid, 

Save  at  his  chief  of  Branksome's  need  ; 

And  when  that  need  was  passed  and  o'er, 

Again  the  volume  to  restore. 

I  buried  him  on  St.  Michael's  night, 

When  the  bell  tolled  one,  and  the  moon  was  bright 

And  I  dug  his  chamber  among  the  dead, 

When  the  floor  of  the  chancel  was  stained  red, 

That  his  patron's  cross  might  over  him  wave, 

And  scare  the  fiends  from  the  wizard's  grave. 
*  # 

"  It  was  a  night  of  wo  and  dread, 

When  Michael  in  the  tomb  I  laid  ! 

Strange  sounds  around  the  chancel  past, 

The  banners  waved  without  a  blast !" — 

— Still  spoke  the  monk,  when  the  bell  tolled  one! 

I  tell  you  that  a  braver  man, 
Than  William  of  Deloniine,  good  at  need, 
Against  a  foe  ne'er  spurred  :i  sleed  ; 


scott.  275 

Yet  somewhat  was  he  chilled  with  dread, 
And  his  hair  did  bristle  upon  his  head. 

*'  Lo,  warrior  !  nOw  the  Cross  of  Red, 

Points  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead  ; 

Within  it  burns  a  wonderous  light, 

To  chase  the  spirits  that  love  the  night : 

That  lamp  shall  burn  unquenchably, 

Until  the  eternal  doom  shall  be  !" 

Slow  moved  the  monk  to  the  broad  flag-stone, 

Which  the  bloody  cross  was  traced  upon : 

He  pointed  to  a  secret  nook  ; 

An  iron  bar  the  warrior  took ; 

And  the  monk  made  a  sign  with  his  withered  hand, 

The  grave's  huge  portal  to  expand. 

With  beating  heart  to  the  task  he  went, 
His  sinewy  frame  o'er  the  grave-stone  bent ; 
With  bar  of  iron  heaved  amain, 
Till  the  toil-drops  fell  from  his  brows,  like  rain. 
It  was  by  dint  of  passing  strength, 
That  he  moved  the  massy  stone  at  length, 
I  would  you  had  been  there  to  see 
How  the  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously, 
Streamed  upward  to  the  chancel  roof, 
And  through  the  galleries  far  aloof! 
No  earthly  flame  blazed  e'er  so  bright ; 
It  shone  like  heaven's  own  blessed  light ; 

.And  issuing  from  the  tomb, 
Showed  the  monk's  cowl,  and  visage  pale, 
Danced  on  the  dark-browed  warrior's  mail, 

And  kissed  his  waving  plume. 


276 


SCOTT. 


Before  their  eyes  the  wizard  lay, 
As  if  he  had  not  been  dead  a  day  ; 
His  hoary  beard  in  silver  rolled, 
He  seemed  some  seventy  winters  old  ; 

A  palmer's  amice  wrapped  him  round, 

With  a  (wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound, 
Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea  : 

His  left  hand  held  his  Book  of  Might, 

A  silver  cross  was  in  his  right ; 

The  lamp  was  placed  beside  his  knee  : 
High  and  majestic  was  his  look, 
At  which  the  fellest  fiends  had  shook, 
And  all  unruffled  was  his  face  : 
They  trusted  his  soul  had  gotten  grace. 

Often  had  William  of  Deloraine 
Rode  through  the  battle's  bloody  plain, 
And  trampled  down  the  warriors  slain, 

And  neither  known  remorse  or  awe  ; 
Yet  now  remorse  and  awe  he  owned  ; 
His  breath  came  thick,  his  head  swam  round, 

When  this  strange  scene  of  death  he  saw, 
Bewildered  and  unnerved  he  stood, 
And  the  priest  prayed  fervently  and  loud  ; 
With  eyes  averted  prayed  lie  ; 
He  might  not  endure  the  sight  to  see, 
Of  the  man  he  had  loved  so  brotherly. 

And  when  the  priest  his  death-prayer  had  prayed, 
Thus  unto  Deloraine  he  said  : — 
"Now,  speed  thee  what  thou  hast  to  do, 
Or  warrior,  we  may  dearly  rue  ; 


scott.  277 

For  those  thou  mayest  not  look  upon, 

Are  gathering  fast  round  the  yawning  stone  !** 

Then  Delorainc,  in  terror,  took 

From  the  cold  hand,  the  mighty  Book, 

With  iron  clasped,  and  with  iron  bound: 

He  thought  as  he  took  it  the  dead  man  frowned : 

But  the  glare  of  the  sepulchral  light, 

Perchance  had  dazzled  the  warrior's  sight. 

When  the  huge  stone  sunk  o'er  the  tomb, 

The  night  returned  in  double  gloom ; 

For  the  moon  had  gone  down  and  the  stars  were  fen  ; 

And,  as  the  knight  and  the  priest  withdrew, 

With  wavering  steps  and  dizzy  brain, 

They  hardly  might  the  postern  gain. 

'Tis  said,  as  through  the  aisles  they  passed, 

They  heard  strange  noises  on  the  blast ; 

And  through  the  cloister-galleries  small, 

Which  at  mid-height  thread  the  chancel  wall, 

Loud  sobs,  and  laughter  louder,  ran, 

And  voices  unlike  the  voice  of  man  ; 

As  if  the  fiends  kept  holiday, 

Because  these  spells  were  brought  to  day. 

I  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be  ; 

I  say  the  tale  as  \was  said  to  me. 


x4 


278  scott. 


THE  TRIAL  OP  CONSTANCE. 

While  round  the  fire  such  legends  go, 
Far  different  was  the  scene  of  wo, 
Where,  in  a  secret  aisle  beneath, 
Council  was  held  of  life  and  death. 

It  was  more  dark  and  lone  that  vault, 
Than  the  worst  dungeon  cell ; 

Old  Colwulf  built  it  for  his  fault 
In  penitence  to  dwell, 
When  he,  for  cowl  and  beads,  laid  down, 
The  Saxon  battle-axe  and  crown. 
This  den,  which,  chilling  every  sense 

Of  feeling,  hearing,  sight, 
Was  called  the  vault  of  Penitence, 

Excluding  air  and  light, 
Was,  by  the  prelate  Sexhelm,  made 
A  place  of  burial,  for  such  dead 
As,  having  died  in  mortal  sin, 
Might  not  be  laid  the  church  within. 
'Twas  now  a  place  of  punishment ; 
Whence  if  so  loud  a  shriek  was  sent, 

As  reached  the  upper  air, 
The  hearers  blessed  themselves,  and  said, 
The  spirits  of  the  sinful  dead 

Bemoaned  their  torments  there. 

But  though,  in  the  monastic  pile, 
Did  of  this  penitential  aisle 
Some  vague  traditiou  go  ; 


scott  279 

Few  only,  save  the  abbot,  knew 

Where  the  place  lay ;  and  still  more  few 

Were  those,  who  had  from  him  the  clew, 

To  that  dread  vault  to  go. 
Victim  and  executioner 
Were  blindfold  when  transported  there. 
In  low  dark  rounds  the  arches  hung, 
From  the  rude  rock,  the  side  walls  sprung, 
The  grave-stones  rudely  sculptured  o'er, 
Half  sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half  wore, 
Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor  ; 
The  mildew  drops  fell  one  by  one, 
With  tinkling  flash,  upon  the  stone. 
A  cresset,  in  an  iron  chain, 
Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain, 
With  damp  and  darkness  seemed  to  strive, 
As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive ; 
And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 
The  awful  conclave  met  below. 

There  met  to  doom  in  secrecy, 

Were  placed  the  heads  of  convents  three, 

All  servants  of  Saint  Benedict, 

The  statutes  of  whose  order  strict. 

On  iron  table  lay  ; 
In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone, 
Behind  were  these  three  judges  shown, 

By  the  pale  cresset's  ray  : 
The  abbess  of  Saint  Hilda's,  there, 
Sat  for  a  space  with  visage  bare, 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  tear  drops  that  for  pity  fell, 


280  SCOTT. 

She  closely  drew  her  veil. 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  guess, 
By  her  proud  mein,  and  flowing  dress, 
Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  prioress  ; 
And  she  with  awe  looks  pale  : 
And  he,  that  ancient  man,  whose  sight 
Has  long  been  quenched  by  age's  night, 
Upon  whose  wrinkled  brow  alone, 
Nor  ruth,  nor  mercy's  trace  is  shown, 

Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern  ; 
Saint  Cuthbert's  abbot  is  his  style  ; 
For  sanctity  called,  through  the  isle, 

The  saint  of  Lindisfarn. 

Before  them  stood  a  guilty  pair ; 
But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share, 
Yet  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 
Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied  ; 
The  cloak  and  doublet  loosely  tied, 
Obscured  her  charms,  but  could  not  hide. 

Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew, 
And,  on  her  doublet  breast, 

She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 
Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But  at  the  prioress'  command, 
A  monk  undid  the  silken  band, 
That  tied  her  tresses  fair, 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head, 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread, 
In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 
Constance  de  Beverley  they  know, 
Sister  professed  of  Fontevraud 


SCOTT.  281 

Whom  the  church  numbered  with  the  dead, 

For  broken  vows  and  convent  fled. 

When  thus  her  face  was  given  to  view, 

(Although  so  pallid  was  her  hue, 

It  did  a  ghastly  contrast  bear 

To  those  bright  ringlets  glistening  fair,) 

Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 

Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy  ; 

And  there  she  stood,  so  calm  and  pale, 

That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 

And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 

And  of  her  bosom  warranted, 

That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks, 

You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax, 

Wrought  to  the  very  life  was  there  ; 

So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair  ! 

Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul, 

Such  as  does  murder  for  a  meed  ; 
Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  control, 
Because  his  conscience,  seared  and  foul, 

Feels  not  the  import  of  his  deed  ; 
One,  whose  brute-feeling  ne'er  aspires 
Beyond  his  own  more  brute  desires. 
Such  tools  the  tempter  ever  needs, 
To  do  the  savagest  of  deeds  : 
For  them  no  visioned  terrors  daunt, 
Their  nights  no  fancied  spectres  haunt ; 
One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base, 
The  fear  of  death, — alone  finds  place. 
This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl, 
And  shamed  not  loud  to  moan  and  how 
24* 


282  scott. 

His  body  on  the  floor  to  dash, 
And  crouch,  Kke  hound  beneath  the  lash; 
While  his  mute  partner,  standing  near, 
Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. 

Yet  well  the  luckless  wretch  might  shriek, 
Well  might  her  paleness  terror  speak ! 
For  there  were  seen  in  that  dark  wall, 
Two  niches,  narrow,  deep,  and  tall ; — 
Who  enters  at  such  grisly  door, 
Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,  find  exit  more! 
In  each  a  slender  meal  was  laid, 
Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread  : 
By  each,  in  Benedictine  dress, 
Two  haggard  monks  stood  motionless  , 
Who,  holding  high  a  blazing  torch, 
Showed  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch  : 
Reflecting  back  the  smoky  beam, 
The  dark-red  walls  and  arches  gleam. 
Hewn  stones  and  cement  were  displayed, 
And  building  tools  in  order  laid. 

These  executioners  were  chose, 

As  men  who  were  with  mankind  foes, 

And,  with  despite  and  envy  fired, 

Into  the  cloister  had  retired  ; 

Or  who,  in  desperate  doubt  of  grace, 

Strove  by  deep  penance  to  efface 

Of  some  foid  crime  the  stain  : 
For  as  the  vassals  of  her  will, 
Such  men  the  church  selected  still, 
As  either  joyed  in  doing  ill. 


scott.  283 

Or  thought  more  grace  to  gain, 
If,  in  her  cause,  they  wrestled  down 
Feelings  their  nature  strove  to  own. 
By  strange  device  were  they  brought  there, 
They  knew  not  how,  and  knew  not  where. 

And  now  that  blind  old  abbot  rose, 

To  speak  the  chapter's  doom, 
On  those  the  wall  was  to  inclose, 

Alive,  within  the  tomb  ; 
But  stopped,  because  that  woful  maid, 
Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essayed. 
Twice  she  essayed,  and  twice  in  vain, 
Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain  ; 
Nought  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 
From  her  convulsed  and  quivering  lip : 
'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still, 
You  seemed  to  hear  a  distant  rill, 

'Twas  ocean's  swells  and  falls  ; 
For  though  this  vault  of  sin  and  fear, 
Was  to  the  sounding  surge  so  near, 
A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear. 

So  massive  were  the  walls. 

At  length,  an  effort  sent  apart 
The  blood  that  curdled  to  her  heart, 

And  light  came  to  her  eye, 
And  colour  dawned  upon  her  cheek, 
A  hectic  and  a  fluttered  streak, 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak, 

By  Autumn's  stormy  sky  ; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length, 


284  scott. 

Still  as  she  spoke,  she  gathered  strength, 

And  armed  herself  to  bear  ; — 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy, 
In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 

44  I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace; 
Well  know  I,  for  one  minute's  space, 

Successless  might  I  sue  : 
Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain  ; 
For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain, 
To  cleanse  my  sins,  be  penance  vain, 

Vain  are  your  masses  too. — 
I  listened  to  a  traitor's  tale, 
I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil, 
For  three  long  years  I  bowed  my  pride, 
A  horse-boy  in  his  train  to  ride  ; 
And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave, 
Who  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave, 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  grave. — 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair; 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir, 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore, 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more.— 
'Tis  an  old  tale,  and  often  told  ; 

But,  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree, 
Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old, 
Of  maiden  true  betrayed  for  gold, 

That  loved,  or  was  avenged,  like  me ! 

44  The  king  approved  his  favourite's  aim  ; 
In  vain  a  rival  barred  his  claim, 


scott.  a85 

Whose  fate  with  Clare's  was  plight, 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge — and  on  they  came, 

In  mortal  lists  to  fight. 
Their  oaths  are  said, 
Their  prayers  are  prayed, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  are  laid, 

They  meet  in  mortal  shock  ; 
And  hark  !  the  throng,  with  thundering  cry, 
Shout  •  Marmion,  Marmion,*  to  the  sky  ; 

'  De  Wilton  to  the  block  !' 
Say  ye,  who  preach  heaven  shall  decide, 
When  in  the  lists  two  champions  ride, 

Say,  was  heaven's  justice  here  ? 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith, 
Wiltou  found  overthrow  or  death, 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear  1 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  fell, 
This  guilty  packet  best  can  tell." — 
Then  drew  a  packet  from  her  breast, 
Paused,  gathered  voice,  and  spoke  the  rest. 

"  Still  was  false  Marmion's  bridal  staid  ; 
To  Whitby's  convent  fled  the  maid, 
The  hated  match  to  shun. 

*  Ho !  shifts  she  thus  V  King  Henry  cried, 

*  Sir  Marmion,  she  shall  be  thy  bride, 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun.* 
One  way  remained — the  king's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land; 
I  lingered  here,  and  rescue  planned 

For  Clara  and  for  me : 


286  scott  . 

This  caitiff  monk,  for  gold,  did  swear, 
He  would  to  Whitby's  shrine  repair, 
And,  by  his  drugs,  my  rival  fair, 

A  saint  in  heaven  should  be. 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept  his  oath, 
Whose  cowardice  hath  undone  us  both. 

"  And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells, 
Not  that  remorse  my  bosom  swells, 
But  to  assure  my  soul,  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betrayed, 
This  packet  to  the  king  conveyed, 
Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stroke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke. — 
Now,  men  of  death,  work  forth  your  will, 
For  I  can  suffer,  and  be  still ; 
And  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast, 
It  is  but  Death  that  comes  at  last. 

••  Yet  dread  me,  from  my  living  tomb, 
Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Rome  ! 
If  Marmion's  late  remorse  should  wake, 
Full  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take, 
That  you  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 
Had  rather  been  your  guest  again. 
Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 
The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends, 
The  ire  of  a  despotic  king, 
Rides  forth  upon  destruction's  wing. 
Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong  and  deep, 
Burst  open  to  the  sea-wind's  sweep  ; 


8C0TT.  287 

Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones, 
Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones, 
And  ignorant  of  priests'  cruelty, 
Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be." 

Fixed  was  her  look,  and  stern  her  air  ; 
Back  from  her  shoulders  streamed  her  hair, 
The  locks,  that  wont  her  hrow  to  shade, 
Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head; 
Her  figure  seemed  to  rise  more  high  ; 
Her  voice,  despair's  wild  energy 
Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 
Appalled  the  astonished  conclave  sate  ; 
With  stupid  eyes,  the  men  of  fate 
Gazed  on  the  light  inspired  form, 
And  listened  for  the  avenging  storm : 
The  judges  felt  the  victim's  dread  ; 
No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said, 
Till  thus  the  abbot's  doom  was  given, 
Raising  his  sightless  balls  to  heaven : — 
*'  Sister,  let  thy  sorrows  cease  ; 
Sinful  brother,  part  in  peace  !'* — 
From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom. 
Of  execution  too,  and  tomb, 

Paced  forth  the  judges  three  ; 
Sorrow  it  were,  and  shame,  to  tell 
The  butcher-work  that  there  befel, 
When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 

Of  sin  and  misery. 

An  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
That  conclave  to  the  upper  day  ; 


288 


SCOTT. 


But,  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air, 
They  heard  the  shriekings  of  despair, 

And  many  a  stifled  groan  : 
With  speed  their  upward  way  they  take, 
Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make, 
And  crossed  themselves  for  terror's  sake, 

As  hurrying,  tottering  on  : 
Even  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone, 
They  seemed  to  hear  a  dying  groan, 
And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 
For  welfare  of  a  parting  soul. 
Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung : 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  rolled, 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told  ; 
The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said  ; 
So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 
The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 
Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 
Listed  before,  aside,  behind, 
Then  couched  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 


4 


■  COTT.  C89 


SONG  —THE  CAVALIBR 


While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and  gray, 
My  true  love  has  mounted  his  steed  and  away, 
Over  hill,  over  valley,  o'er  dale,  and  o'er  down ; 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  gallant  that  fights  for  the  crown ! 

He  has  doffed  the  silk  doublet  the  breast-plate  to  bear, 
He  has  placed  the  steel-cap  o*er  his  long  flowing  hair, 
From  hisbeltto  his  stirrup  his  broadsword  hangs  down,— 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  gallant  that  fights  for  the  crown ! 

For  the  rights  of  fair  England  that  broadsword  he  draws, 
Her  king  is  his  leader,  her  church  is  his  cause ; 
His  watch-word  is  honour,  his  pay  is  renown, — 
God  strike  with  the  gallant  that  strikes  for  the  crown  ! 

They  may  boast  of  their  Fairfax,  their  Waller,  and  all 
The  roundheaded  rebels  of  Westminster-hall ; 
But  tell  these  bold  traitors  of  London's  proud  town, 
That  the  spears  of  the  north  have  encircled  the  crown. 

There's  Derby  and  Cavendish,  dread  of  their  foes  ; 
There's  Erin's  high  Ormond,  and  Scotland's  Montrose! 
Would  you  match  the  base  Skippon,  and  Massy,  and 

Brown, 
With  the  barons  of  England  who  fight  for  the  crown  ? 

Now  joy  to  the  crest  of  the  brave  cavalier  ? 
Be  his  banner  unconquered,  resistless  his  spear, 
Till  in  peace  and  in  triumph  his  toils  he  may  drown, 
In  a  pledge  to  fair  England,  her  church,  and  her  crown! 
25 


MONTGOMERY. 


THE  DEATH  OF  ADAM. 


The  sun  went  down  amidst  an  angry  glare 
Of  flushing  clouds,  that  crimsoned  all  the  air; 
The  winds  brake  loose  ;  the  forest  boughs  were  torn, 
And  dark  aloof  the  eddying  foliage  borne  ; 
Cattle  to  shelter  scudded  in  affright ; 
The  florid  evening  vanished  into  night ; 
Then  burst  the  hurricane  upon  the  vale, 
In  peals  of  thunder,  and  thick  vollied  hail ; 
Prone  rushing  rains  with  torrents  whelmed  the  land, 
Our  cot  amidst  a  river  seemed  to  stand  ; 
Around  its  base,  the  foamy-crested  streams 
Flashed  through  the  darkness  to  the  lightning's  gleams 
With  monstrous  throes  an  earthquake  heaved  the  ground, 
The  rocks  were  rent,  the  mountains  trembled  round ! 
Never  since  Nature  into  being  came, 
Had  such  mysterious  motion  shook  her  frame  ; 
We  thought,  ingulpht  in  floods,  or  wrapt  in  fire, 
The  world  itself  would  perish  with  our  Sire. 


MONTGOMERY.  291 

Amidst  this  war  of  elements,  within 
More  dreadful  grew  the  sacrifice  of  sin, 
Whose  victim  on  his  bed  of  torture  lay, 
Breathing  the  slow  remains  of  life  away 
Erewhile,  victorious  faith  sublimer  rose 
Beneath  the  pressure  of  collected  woes : 
But  now  his  spirit  wavered,  went  and  came, 
Like  the  loose  vapour  of  departing  flame, 
Till  at  the  point,  when  comfort  seemed  to  die, 
For  ever  in  his  fixed  unclosing  eye, 
Bright  through  the  smouldering  ashes  of  the  man, 
The  saint  broke  forth,  and  Adam  thus  began  ! 

" — O  ye,  that  shudder  at  this  awful  strife, 
This  wrestling  agony  of  death  and  life, 
Think  not  that  He,  on  whom  my  soul  is  cast, 
Will  leave  me  thus  forsaken  to  the  last ; 
Nature's  infirmity  alone  you  see  ; 
My  chains  are  breaking,  I  shall  soon  be  free; 
Though  firm  in  God  the  spirit  holds  her  trust, 
The  flesh  is  frail,  and  trembles  into  dust. 
Horror  and  anguish  seize  me  ; — 'tis  the  hour    , 
Of  darkness,  and  I  mourn  beneath  its  power; 
The  Tempter  plies  me  with  his  direst  art, 
I  feel  the  Serpent  coiling  round  my  heart ; 
He  stirs  the  wound  he  once  inflicted  there, 
Instils  the  deadening  poison  of  despair! 
Belies  the  truth  of  God's  delaying  grace, 
And  bids  me  curse  my  Maker  to  his  face. 
I  will  not  curse  Him,  though  his  grace  delay  ; 
I  will  not  cease  to  trust  Him,  though  he  slay  ; 


2'J2  MONTGOMERY. 

Full  on  his  promised  mercy  I  rely, 
For  God  hath  spoken — God,  who  cannot  lie. 
— Thou,  of  my  faith  the  Author  and  the  End  ! 
Mine  early,  late,  and  everlasting  Friend  ! 
The  joy,  that  once  thy  presence  gave,  restore, 
Ere  I  am  summoned  hence,  and  seen  no  more : 
Down  to  the  dust  returns  this  earthly  frame, 
Receive  my  spirit,  Lord  !  from" whom  it  came; 
Rebuke  the  Tempter,  show  thy  power  to  save, 
O  let  tliy  glory  light  me  to  the  grave, 
That  these,  who  witness  my  departing  breath, 
May  learn  to  triumph  in  the  grasp  of  death." 

He  closed  his  eyelids  with  a  tranquil  smile, 
And  seemed  to  rest  in  silent  prayer  awhile  : 
Around  his  couch  with  filial  awe  we  kneeled, 
When  suddenly  a  light  from  heaven  revealed 
A  Spirit,  that  stood  within  the  unopened  door  ; — 
The  sword  of  God  in  his  right  hand  he  bore  ; 
His  countenance  was  lightning,  and  his  vest 
Like  snow  at  sun-rise  on  the  mountain's  crest ; 
Yet  so  benignly  beautiful  his  form, 
His  presence  stilled  the  fury  of  the  storm  ; 
At  once  the  winds  retire,  the  waters  cease, 
His  look  was  love,  his  salutation,  •  Peace  !' 

Our  mother  iirst  beheld  him,  sore  amazed, 
But  terror  grew  to  transport  while  she  gazed  ; 
— '  'Tis  He,  the  Prince  of  Seraphim,  who  drove 
Our  banished  feet  from  Eden's  happy  grove  ; 
Adam,  my  life,  my  spouse,  awake  !'  she  cried  ; 
4  Return  to  Paradise;  behold  thy  guide  !' 


MONTGOMERY.  293 

»>  let  me  follow  in  this  dear  embrace  !* 
She  sunk,  and  on  his  bosom  hid  her  face. 
Adam  looked  up  ;  his  visage  changed  its  hue, 
Transformed  into  an  angel's  at  the  view  : 
'  I  come  !'  he  cried,  with  faith's  full  triumph  fired, 
And  in  a  sigh  of  ecstacy  expired. 
The  light  was  vanished,  and  the  vision  fled  ; 
We  stood  alone,  the  living  with  the  dead  ; 
The  ruddy  embers,  glimmering  round  the  room, 
Displayed  the  corse  amidst  the  solemn  gloom  ; 
But  o'er  the  scene  a  holy  calm  reposed, 
The  gate  of  heaven  had  opened  there,  and  closed. 

Eve's  faithful  arm  still  clasped  her  lifeless  spouse  ; 
Gently  I  shook  it,  from  her  trance  to  rouse ; 
She  gave  no  answer ;  motionless  and  cold. 
It  fell  like  clay  from  my  relaxing  hold  ; 
Alarmed,  I  lifted  up  the  locks  of  gray 
That  hid  her  cheek ;  her  soul  had  passed  away  ; 
A  beauteous  corse  she  graced  her  partner's  side, 
Love  bound  their  lives,  and  death  could  not  divide. 

Trembling  astonishment  of  grief  we  felt, 
Till  Nature's  sympathies  began  to  melt ; 
We  wept  in  stillness  through  the  long  dark  night, 
— And  O  how  welcome  was  the  morning  light. 


35» 


294  MONTGOMERY. 


ODB. 

O  for  the  death  of  those 
Who  for  their  country  die, 
Sink  on  her  bosom  to  repose, 
And  triumph  where  they  die ! 

How  beautiful  in  death 
The  Warrior's  corse  appears, 
Embalmed  by  fond  Affection's  breath, 
And  bathed  in  Woman's  tears ! 

Their  loveliest  native  earth 
Enshrines  the  fallen  brave ; 
In  the  dear  land  that  gave  them  birth 
They  find  their  tranquil  grave. 

— But  the  wild  waves  shall  sweep 
Britannia's  foes  away, 
And  the  blue  monsters  of  the  deep 
Be  surfeited  with  prey. — 

—Thus  vanish  Britain's  foes 
From  her  consuming  eye  ; 
But  rich  be  the  reward  of  those, 
Who  conquer, — those  who  die. 


MONTGOMERY.  295 

O'er-shadowing  laurels  deck, 

The  living  hero's  brows ; 

But  lovelier  wreaths  entwine  his  neck, 

His  children  and  his  spouse. 

Exulting  o'er  his  lot, 

The  dangers  he  has  braved, 

He  clasps  the  dear  one,  hails  the  cot, 

Which  his  own  valour  saved. 

Daughters  op  Albion,  weep  : 

On  this  triumphant  plain, 

Your  fathers  husbands,  brethren  sleep, 

For  you  and  freedom  slain. 

O  gently  close  the  eye 
That  loved  to  look  on  you  ; 
O  seal  the  lip  whose  earliest  sigh, 
Whose  latest  breath  was  true  : 

With  knots  of  sweetest  flowers 

Their  winding-sheet  perfume  ; 

And  wash  their  wounds  with  true-love  showers, 

And  dress  them  for  the  tomb. 

For  beautiful  in  death 
The  Warrior's  corse  appears, 
Embalmed  by  fond  Affection's  breath 
And  bathed  in  Woman's  tears. 


296  MONTGOMERY 

Give  me  the  death  of  those 

Who  for  their  country  die  ; 
And  O  be  mine  like  their  repose, 
When  cold  and  low  they  lie  ! 

Their  loveliest  mother  Earth 
Entwines  the  fallen  brave, 
In  her  sweet  lap  who  gave  them  birth 
They  find  their  tranquil  grave. 


THE  DIAL 

This  shadow  on  the  Dial's  face, 

That  steals  from  day  to  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace, 

Moments,  and.months,  and  years  away  ; — 
This  shadow,  which,  in  every  clime, 

Since  light  and  motion  first  began, 
Hath  held  its  course  sublime  ; — 

What  is  it  ? Mortal  Man ! 

It  is  the  scythe  of  Time  : 

— A  shadow  only  to  the  eye  ; 

Yet,  in  its  calm  career, 
It  levels  all  beneath  the  sky  ! 

And  still  through  each  succeeding  year, 
Right  onward,  with  resistless  power, 
Its  stroke  shall  darken  every  hour, 

Till  Nature's  race  be  run, 
And  Time's  last  shadow  shall  eclipse  the  sun. 


MONTGOMERY.  297 

Nor  only  o'er  the  Dial's  face, 

This  silent  phantom,  day  by  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace, 

Steals  moments,  months,  and  years  away ; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree, 

From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering  walls 
From  Teneriffe,  towering  o'er  the  sea, 

From  every  blade  of  grass,  it  falls  ; 
For  still  where'er  a  shadow  sleeps 

The  scythe  of  time  destroys, 
And  man  at  every  footstep  weeps 

O'er  evanescent  joys ; 
Like  flowerets  glittering  with  the  dews  of  morn, 
Fair  for  a  moment,  then  for  ever  shorn: 
— Ah  !  soon,  beneath  the  inevitable  blow, 
I  too  shall  lie  in  dust  and  darkness  low. 

Then  Time,  the  Conqueror,  will  suspend 

His  scythe,  a  trophy,  o'er  my  tomb, 
Whose  moving  shadow  shall  portend 

Each  frail  beholder's  doom. 
O'er  the  wide  earth's  illumined  space, 

Though  Time's  triumphant  flight  be  shown, 
The  truest  index  on  its  face 

Points  from  the  churchyard  stone. 


298  MONTGOMERY. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND. 

Friend  after  friend  departs  ; 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  1 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 

That  finds  not  here  an  end ; 
Were  this  frail  world  our  final  rest, 
Living  or  dying  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  time, — 

Beyond  the  reign  of  death, — 
There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime 

Where  life  is  not  a  breath  ; 
Nor  life's  affections,  transient  fire, 
Whose  sparks  fly  upwards  and  expire  I 

There  is  a  world  above, 

Where  parting  is  unknown  ; 
A  long  eternity  of  love, 

Formed  for  the  good  alone  ; 
And  faith  beholds  the  dying,  here, 
Translated  to  that  glorious  sphere! 

Thus  star  by  star  declines, 

Till  all  are  past  away  : 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines, 

To  pure  and  perfect  day: 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night, 
But  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light. 


CAMPBELL. 


ODE. 


Ye  Mariners  of  England ! 
That  guard  our  native  seas  ; 
Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years. 
The  battle,  and  the  breeze  ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe, 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  tempests  blow  ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave  ! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave  : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  heart*  shall  glow, 


300  CAMPBELL. 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  tempests  blow  ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves. 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  tempests  blow  ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow  ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  .o  blow. 


CAMPBELL.  301 


HOHENLINDEN 


On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night. 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 


By  torch  and  trumpet  tast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow, 
On  Linden  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 
26 


S02  CAMPBELL. 

Tig  morn,  but  scarce  yon  lurid  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On  !  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave  ! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 


Few,  few,  shall  part  where  many  meeti 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier'*-  sepulchre. 


CAMPBELL.  303 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce — for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky  ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  faggot  that  guarded  the  slain ; 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track; 

'Twas  autumn — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine  cup,  and  fondly  I  swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

•  Stay,  stay  with  us — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn ;' — 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay, 

But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


ROULKt» 


FOSCARI. 


Let  us  lift  up  the  curtain,  and  observe 
What  passes  in  that  chamber.     Now  a  sigh, 
And  now  a  groan  is  heard.     Then  all  is  still. 
Twenty  are  sitting  as  in  judgment  there ; 
Men  who  have  served  their  country,  and  grown  gray 
In  governments  and  distant  embassies, 
Men  eminent  alike  in  war  and  peace ; 
Such  as  in  effigy  shall  long  adorn 
The  walls  of  Venice — to  show  what  she  has  been. 
Their  garb  is  black,  and  black  the  arras  is, 
And  sad  the  general  aspect.     Yet  their  looks 
Are  calm,  are  cheerful ;  nothing  there  like  grief, 
Nothing  or  harsh,  or  cruel.     Still  that  noise, 
That  low  and  dismal  moaning. 

Half  withdrawn, 
A  little  to  the  left  sits  one  in  crimson, 
A  venerable  man,  fourscore  and  upward. 


ROGERS.  305 

Cold  drops  of  sweat  stand  on  his  furrowed  brow. 

His  hands  are  clenched  ;  his  eyes  half  shut  and  glazed  ; 

His  shrunk  and  withered  limbs  rigid  as  marble. 

'Tis  Foscari,  the  Doge.     And  there  is  one, 

A  young  man,  lying  at  his  feet,  stretched  out 

In  torture.     'Tis  his  son,  his  only  one  ; 

'Tis  Giacomo,  the  blessing  of  his  age,    % 

(Say,  has  he  lived  for  this  ?)  accused  of  murder, 

The  murder  of  the  Senator  Donato. 

Last  night  the  proofs,  if  proofs  they  are,  were  dropt 

Into  the  lion's  mouth,  the  mouth  of  brass, 

That  gapes  and  gorges  ;  and  the  Doge  himself, 

('Tis  not  the  first  time  he  has  filled  this  office) 

Must  sit  and  look  on  a  beloved  son 

Suffering  the  question. 

Twice,  to  die  in  peace, 
To  save  a  falling  house,  and  turn  the  hearts 
Of  his  fell  adversaries,  those  who  now, 
Like  hell  hounds  in  full  cry,  are  running  down 
His  last  of  four,  twice  did  he  ask  their  leave 
To  lay  aside  the  Crown,  and  they  refused  him, 
An  oath  exacting,  never  more  to  ask  it ; 
And  there  he  sits,  a  spectacle  of  wo, 
By  them,  his  rivals  in  the  state,  compelled, 
Such  the  refinement  of  their  cruelty, 
To  keep  the  place  he  sighed  for. 

Once  again 
The  screw  is  turned,  and  as  it  turns,  the  Son 
Looks  up,  and  in  a  faint  and  broken  accent, 
Murmurs  "  Mv  Father  !"     The  old  man  shrinks  back, 
26* 


906  ROGERS. 

And  in  his  mantle  muffles  up  his  face. 

•'  Art  thou  not  guilty  1"  says  a  voice,  that  once 

Would  greet  the  sufferer  long  before  they  met, 

And  on  his  ear  strike  like  a  pleasant  music, 

"  Art  thou  not  guilty  !*■ — "  No  !  indeed  I  am  not." 

But  all  is  unavailing.     In  that  court 

Groans  are  confessions  ;  Patience,  Fortitude, 

The  work  of  magic;  and  released,  upheld, 

For  condemnation,  from  his  Father's  lips 

He  hears  the  sentence,  "  Banishment  to  Candia. 

Death  if  he  leaves  it." 

And  the  bark  sets  sail ; 
And  he  is  gone  from  all  he  loves — for  ever  ! 
His  wife,  his  boys,  and  his  disconsolate  parents  ! 
Gone  in  the  dead  of  night — unseen  of  any — 
Without  a  word,  a  look  of  tenderness, 
To  be  called  up,  when,  in  his  lonely  hours 
He  would  indulge  in  weeping. 

Like  a  ghost, 
Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  he  haunts 
An  ancient  rampart,  that  o'erhangs  the  sea ; 
Gazing  on  vacancy,  and  hourly  starting 
To  answer  to  the  watch — Alas,  how  changed 
From  him  the  mirror  of  the  youth  of  Venice, 
In  whom  the  slightest  thing,  or  whim,  or  chance, 
Did  he  but  wear  his  doublet  so  and  so, 
All  followed  :  at  whose  nuptials,  when  at  length 
He  won  that  maid  at  once  the  fairest,  noblest, 
A  daughter  of  the  House  of  Contarini, 
That  house  as  old  as  Venice,  now  among 


ROGERS.  807 

Its  ancestors  in  monumental  brass, 
Numbering  eigbt  Doges — to  convey  her  home, 
The  Bucentaur  went  forth,  and  thrice  the  Sun 
Shone  on  the  Chivalry,  that,  front  to  front, 
And  blaze  on  blaze  reflecting,  met  and  ranged 
To  tourney  in  St.  Marks. 

But  lo,  at  last, 
Messengers  come.     He  is  recalled  :  his  heart 
Leaps  at  the  tidings.     He  embarks  :  the  boat 
Springs  to  the  oar,  and  back  again  he  goes, 
Into  that  very  chamber  !  there  to  lie 
In  his  old  resting-place,  the  bed  of  torture ; 
And  thence  look  up  (Five  long,  long  years  of  grief 
Have  not  killed  either)  on  his  wretched  Sire, 
Still  in  that  seat — as  though  he  had  not  left  it, 
Immoveable,  enveloped  in  his  mantle. 
But  now  he  comes,  convicted  of  a  crime 
Great  by  the  laws  of  Venice.     Night  and  day, 
Brooding  on  what  he  hud  been,  what  he  was, 
'Twas  more  than  he  could  bear.     His  longing  fit.* 
Thickened  upon  him.     His  desire  for  home 
Became  a  madness  ;  and,  resolved  to  go, 
If  but  to  die,  in  his  despair  he  writes 
A  letter  to  Francesco,  Duke  of  Milan, 
Soliciting  his  influence  with  the  State, 
And  drops  it  to  be  found. — "  Would  ye  know  all — 
I  have  transgressed,  offended  wilfully  ; 
And  am  prepared  to  suffer  as  I  ought. 
But  let  me,  let  me,  if  but  for  an  instant, 
Ye  must  consent — for  all  of  you  are  sons, 
Most  of  you  husbands,  fathers,  let  me  first, 


308 


»C  0 ERS 


Indulge  the  natural  feelings  of  a  man, 
And,  ere  I  die,  if  such  my  sentence  be, 
Press  to  my  heart  ('tis  all  I  ask  of  you) 
My  wife,  my  children — and  my  aged  mother- 
Say,  is  she  yet  alive  ?" 

He  is  condemned 
To  go  ere  set  of  sun,  go   vhence  he  came, 
A  banished  man — and  ■:■  r  a  year  to  breathe 
The  vapour  of  a  dungeon. — But  his  prayer 
(What  could  they  less  1)  is  granted. 

In  a  hall 
Open  and  crowded  by  the  common  rabble, 
'Twas  there  a  trembling  Wife  and  her  four  Sons 
Yet  young,  a  Mother,  borne  along,  bedridden, 
And  an  old  Doge,  mustering  up  all  his  strength, 
That  strength  how  small,  assembled  now  to  meet 
One  so  long  lost,  long  mourned,  one  who  for  them 
Had  braved  so  much — death,  and  yet  worse  than  death— 
To  meet  him,  and  to  part  with  him  for  ever ! 

Time  and  their  heavy  wrongs  had  changed  them  all, 
Him  most !     Yet  when  the  Wife,  the  Mother  looked 
Again,  'twas  he  himself,  'twas  Giacomo, 
Their  only  hope,  and  trust,  and  consolation  ! 
And  all  clung  round  him,  weeping  bitterly  ; 
Weeping  the  more,  because  they  wept  in  vain. 

Unnerved,  unsettled  in  his  mind  from  long 
And  exquisite  pain,  he  sobs  aloud  and  cries, 
Kissing  the  old  Man's  cheek,  "  TL-  !;>  me,  my  Father! 


ROGERS.  309 

Let  me,  I  pray  thee,  live  once  more  among  you  : 

Let  me  go  home  !" — "  My  Son,"  returns  the  Doge, 

Mastering  awhile  his  grief,  "  if  I  may  still 

Gall  thee  my  Son,  if  thou  art  innocent, 

As  I  would  fain  believe ;"  but  as  he  speaks, 

He  falls,  "  submit  without  a  murmur." 

Night, 
That  to  the  World  brought  revelry,  to  them 
Brought  only  food  for  sorrow :  Giacomo 
Embarked — to  die,  sent  to  an  early  grave 
For  thee,  Erizzo,  whose  death-bed  confession, 
"  He  is  most  innocent !     'Twas  I  who  did  it !" 
Came  when  he  slept  in  peace.     The  ship,  that  sailed 
Swift  as  the  winds  with  his  recall  to  honour, 
Bore  back  a  lifeless  corpse.     Generous  as  brave, 
Affection,  kindness,  the  sweet  offices 
Of  love  and  duty  were  to  him  as  needful 
As  was  his  daily  bread  ; — and  to  become 
A  by-word  in  the  meanest  mouths  of  Venice, 
Bringing  a  stain  on  those  who  gave  him  life, 
On  those,  alas,  now  worse  than  fatherless — 
To  be  proclaimed  a  ruffian,  a  night-stabber, 
He  on  whom  none  before  had  breathed  reproach- 
He  lived  but  to  disprove  it.     That  hope  lost, 
Death  followed.     From  the  hour  he  went,  he  spoke  not  { 
And  in  his  dungeon,  when  he  laid  him  down, 
He  gunk  to  rise  no  more.     Oh,  if  there  be 
Justice  in  heaven,  and  we  are  assured  there  is, 
A  day  must  come  of  ample  Retribution  ! 

Then  was  thy  cup,  old  Man,  full  to  o'erflowing, 


310  ROGERS. 

But  thou  wert  yet  alive  ;  and  there  was  one, 

The  soul  and  spring  of  all  that  enmity, 

Who  would  not  leave  thee  ;  fastening  on  thy  flank, 

Hungering  and  thirsting,  still  unsatisfied  ; 

One  of  a  name  illustrious  as  thine  own  ! 

One  of  the  Ten  !  one  of  the  Invisible  Three  ! 

'Twas  Loredano. 

> 
When  the  whelps  were  gone 
He  would  dislodge  the  Lion  from  his  den  ; 
And,  leading  on  the  pack  he  long  had  led, 
The  miserable  pack  that  ever  howled 
Against  fallen  greatness,  moved  that  Foscari 
Be  Doge  no  longer  ;  urging  his  great  age, 
His  incapacity  and  nothingness  ; 
Calling  a  Father's  sorrows  in  his  chamber 
Neglect  of  duty,  anger,  contumacy. 
"  I  am  most  willing  to  retire,"  said  Foscari : 
"  But  I  have  sworn,  and  cannot  of  myself. 
*'  Do  with  me  as  ye  please." 

He  was  deposed 
He,  who  had  reigned  so  long  and  gloriously  ; 
His  ducal  bonnet  taken  from  his  brow, 
His  robes  stript  off,  his  ring,  that  ancient  symbol, 
Broken  before  him.     But  now  nothing  moved 
The  meekness  of  his  soul.     All  things  a4ike. 
Among  the  six  that  came  with  the  decree, 
Foscari  saw  one  he  knew  not,  and  inquired 
His  name.     "  I  am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo."    : 
M  Ah,"  he  replied,  "  thy  father  was  my  friend." 
And  now  he  goes.     It  is  the  hour  and  past. 


ROGERS.  311 

"  I  have  no  business  here."     But  wilt  thou  not 

Avoid  the  gazing  crowd  1  That  way  is  private. 

"  No  !  as  I  entered,  so  will  I  retire." 

And  leaning  on  his  staff,  he  left  the  palace, 

His  residence  for  four  and  thirty  years, 

By  the  same  staircase  he  came  up  in  splendour — 

The  staircase  of  the  giants.     Turning  round, 

When  in  the  court  below,  he  stopt  and  said, 

**  My  merits  brought  me  hither;  I  depart, 

Driven  by  the  malice  of  my  enemies." 

Then  through  the  crowd  withdrew,  poor  as  he  came, 

And  in  his  gondola  went  off,  unfollowed 

But  by  the  sighs  of  them  that  dared  not  speak. 

This  journey  was  his  lasj.     When  the  bell  rung 

Next  day,  announcing  a  new  Doge  to  Venice, 

It  rung  his  knell. 

But  whence  the  deadly  hate 
That  caused  all  this — the  hate  of  Loredano  ? 
It  was  a  legacy  his  father  left  him, 
Who,  but  for  Foscari,  had  reigned  in  Venice, 
And,  like  the  venom  in  the  serpent's  bag, 
Gathered  and  grew  !  Nothing  but  turned  to  venom  ! 
In  vain  did  Foscari  sue  for  peace,  for  friendship, 
Offering  in  marriage  his  fair  Isabel : 
He  changed  not ;  with  a  dreadful  piety, 
Studying  revenge  ;  listening  alone  to  those 
Who  talked  of  vengeance  ;  grasping  by  the  hand 
Those  in  their  zeal  (and  none,  alas,  were  wanting) 
Who  came  to  tell  him  of  another  wrong, 
Done  or  imagined.     When  his  father  died, 
'Twas  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  He  died  by  poison." 


312  -  ROGERS. 

He  wrote  it  on  the  tomb,  ('tis  there  in  marble,) 
And  in  his  leger-book,  among  the  debtors, 
Entered  the  name,  "  Francesco  Foscari ;" 
And  added,  "  For  the  murder  of  my  father:" 
Leaving  a  blank  to  be  filled  up  hereafter. 
When  Foscari's  noble  heart  at  length  gave  way, 
He  took  the  volume  from  the  shelf  again 
Calmly,  and  with  his  pen  filled  up  the  blank, — 
Inscribing,  "  He  h  is  paid  me." 


GENEVRA. 


1 1*  ever  von  should  conic  to  Modena, 
Stop  tit  a  "palace  near  the  Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini. 
lis  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  you, — but,  before  you  go, 
Enter  the  house— forget  it  not  I  pray  you, 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 

'Tis  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  last  of  that  illustrious  family  ; 
Done  by  Zampieri — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 


ROGERS.  313 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 

Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  finger  up, 

As  though  she  said,  "  Beware  !"  her  vest  of  gold, 

Broidered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to  foot, 

An  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp  ; 

And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 

A  coronet  of  pearls 

But  then  her  face, 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart — 
It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody. 

Alone  it  hangs 
Over  a  mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken  chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent, 
With  Scripture  stories  from  the  Life  of  Christ. 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestor — 
That  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture  ;  and  you  will  not, 
When  you  have  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child — her  name  Genevra, 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  father ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  drew. 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety, 
27 


314  ROGERS. 

Her  pranks  the  favourite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour ; 
Now,  frowning,  smiling  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum, 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy  ;  but  at  the  nuptial  feast, 
When  all  sat  down,  the  bride  herself  was  wanting, 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  father  cried, 
"  'Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  bur  love  !" 
And  filled  his  glass  to  all  ;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory  tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas  !  she  was  not  to  he  found  ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  any  thing  be  guessed, 
But  that  she  was  not ! 

Weary  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and,  embarking, 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk  ! 
Orsini  lived — and  long  might  you  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something, 
Something  he  could  not  find,  he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile, 
Silent  and  tenantless  ; — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgotten, 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallerv. 


ROGERS.  315 

That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed  ;  and  'twas  said 

By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Genevra, 

*  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking  place  V 

*Twas  done  as  soon  as  said  ;  but  on  the  way 

It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton, 

With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald  stone, 

A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 

All  else  had  perished— save  a  weddicg  ring, 

And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 

Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 

"  Genrvra," 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave  I 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy  ; 
When  a  spring  lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  for  ever  I 


■** 


316  ROGERS, 


THE  WISH. 


Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 

A  bee-hive*s  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear ; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 

With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow  oft,  beneath  my  thatch, 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 

Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 

And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  snail  spring, 

Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew ; 

And  Lucy  at  her  peals  shall  sing, 
[n  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church  among  the  trees, 

Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  given, 

With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


MOORE. 


AWAKENED  CONSCIENCE. 


Cheered  by  this  hope  she  bends  her  thither;- 
Still  laughs  the  radiant  eye  of  Heaven, 
Nor  have  the  golden  bowers  of  Even 
In  the  rich  West  begun  to  wither, — 
When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Balbec  winging 

Slowly,  she  sees  a  child  at  play, 
Among  the  rosy  wild  flowers  singing, 

As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they  ; 
Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 
The  beautiful  blue  damsel-flies, 
That  fluttered  round  the  jasmine  stems, 
Like  winged  flowers  or  flying  gems  : — 
And,  near  the  boy,  who  tired  with  play, 
Now  nestling  mid  the  roses  lay, 
She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount, 

From  his  hot  steed,  and  on  the  brink 
Of  a  small  imaret's  rustic  fount 

Impatient  fliug  him  down  to  drink. 
Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turned 
27* 


818  MOORE. 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat, 
Though  never  yet  hath  day-beam  burned 
Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that, — 
Sullenly  fierce, — a  mixture  dire, 
Like  thunder-clouds  of  gloom  and  fire  ! 
In  which  the  Peri's  eye  could  read 
Dark  tales  of  many  a  ruthless  deed  ; 
The  ruined  maid — the  shrine  profaned — 
Oaths  broken — and  the  threshold  stained 
With  blood  of  guests  !  there  written  all, 
Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 
From  the  denouncing  Angel's  pen, 
Ere  Mercy  weeps  them  out  again  ! 
Yet  tranquil  now,  that  man  of  crime 
(As  if  the  balmy  evening  time 
Softened  his  spirit)  looked  and  lay, 
Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play  : — 
Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chance 
Fell  on  the  boy's,  its  lurid  glance 
Met  that  unclouded,  joyous  gaze, 
As  torches  that  have  burnt  all  night, 
Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite, 
Encounter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

But  hark  !  the  vesper-call  to  prayer, 

As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 
Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air, 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets  ! 
The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed 
Of  flowers,  where  he  had  laid  his  head, 
And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 
Kneels,  with  his  forehead  to  the  south, 


MOORE  319 

Lisping  the  eternal  name  of  God 

From  Purity's  own  cherub  mouth, 

And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 

Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 

Like  a  stray  babe  of  Paradise, 

Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain, 

And  seeking  for  its  home  again  ! 

Oh  'twas  a  sight — that  Heaven — that  child — 

A  scene,  which  might  have  well  beguiled 

Even  haughty  Eblis  of  a  sigh 

For  glories  lost  and  peace  gone  by ! 

And  how  felt  Ac,  the  wretched  Man, 
Reclining  there, — while  memory  ran 
O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 
Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life, 
Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place, 
Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace  ! 
"  There  was  a  time,"  he  said  in  mild 
Heart-humbled  tones,  "thou  blessed  child, 
"  When  young  and  haply  pure  as  thou, 
11 1  looked  and  prayed  like  thee — but  now" — 
He  hung  his  head,— each  nobler  aim, 

And  hope,  and  feeling,  which  had  slept, 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept — he  wept! 

Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence  ! 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know 


320  MOORE. 


FROM  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM. 

Alas  ! — how  light  a  cause  may  move 
Dissension  between  hearts  that  love  ! 
Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  had  tried, 
And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied  ; 
That  stood  the  storm,  when  waves  were  rough, 
Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fall  off, 
Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea, 
When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity  ! 
A  something,  light  as  air, — a  look, 

A  word  unkind,  or  wrongly  taken — 
Oh !  love,  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  hath  shaken. 

And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin  ; 
And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day  ; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said  ; 
Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  j^one, 
And  hearts  so  lately  mingled,  seem 
Like  broken  clouds, — or  like  the  stream, 
That  smiling  left  the  mountain's  brow, 

As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could  sever, 
Yet,  ere  it  reach  the  plain  below, 

Breaks  into  floods,  that  part  for  ever. 


MOORE.  321 

Oh,  you,  that  have  the  charge  of  Love, 

Keep  him  in  rosy  bondage  bound, 
As  in  the  fields  of  bliss  above, 

He  sits,  with  flowerets  fettered  round  ;— 
Loose  not  a  tie  that  round  him  clings, 
Nor  ever  let  him  use  his  wings  ; 
For  even  an  hour,  a  minute's  flight 
Will  rob  the  plumes  of  half  their  light. 
Like  that  celestial  bird,  whose  nest 
Is  found  beneath  far  eastern  skies, 
Whose  wings,  though  radiant  when  at  rest, 
Lose  all  their  glory  when  he  flies  ! 


SONG. 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 
But,  oh  !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without ! 

Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
The  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness. 

Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 
The  silvery -footed  antelope 
As  gracefully  and  gaily  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 


322                                                MOORE. 

Then  come, — thy  Arab  maid  will  he 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree, 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

* 

Oh  !  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, — 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then  ! 

So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 
When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone  ; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years  ! 

% 

Then  fly  with  me, — if  thou  hast  known 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  thou  hast  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn. 

Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee, — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  under  ground, 
When  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found. 

■ 

MOORE.  223 


But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipped  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  .to  me  the  ruined  place ; — 

Then,  fare  thee  well, — Pd  rather  make 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake, 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine. 


MY  BIRTH-DAY 


"  My  birth-day"— what  a  different  sound 
That  word  had  in  my  youthful  ears ! 

And  how,  each  time  the  day  comes  round, 
Less  and  less  white  its  mark  appears  ! 

When  first  our  scanty  years  are  told, 
It  seems  like  pastime  to  grow  old  ; 
And,  as  Youth  counts  the  shining  links, 

That  Time  around  him  binds  so  fast, 
Pleased  with  the  task,  he  little  thinks 

How  hard  that  chain  will  oress  at  last. 


324  MOORE. 

Vain  was  the  man,  and  false  as  vain, 

Who  said — "  Were  he  ordained  to  run 
M  His  long  career  of  life  again, 

"  He  would  do  all  that  he  had  done.'*—  ' 
Ah,  'tis  not  thus  the  voice,  that  dwells 

In  sober  birth-days,  speaks  to  me, 
Far  otherwise — of  time  it  tells, 

Lavished  unwisely,  carelessly — 
Of  counsel  mocked — of  talents,  made 

Haply  for  high  and  pure  designs, 
But  oft,  like  Israel's  incense,  laid 

Upon  unholy,  earthly  shrines, — 
Of  nursing  many  a  wrong  desire, — 

Of  wandering  after  Love  too  far, 
And  taking  every  meteor  fire, 

That  crossed  my  pathway,  for  his  star ! 
All  this  it  telis,  and,  could  I  trace 

Th'  imperfect  picture  o'er  again, 
With  power  to  add,  retouch,  efface, 

The  light  and  shades, — the  joy  and  pain, 
How  little  of  the  past  would  stay  ! 
How  quickly  all  should  melt  away — 
All, — but  that  freedom  of  the  mind, 

Which  hath  been  more  than  wealth  to  me ; 
Those  friendships  in  my  boyhood  twined, 

And  kept  till  now  unchangingly  ; 
And  that  dear  home,  that  saving  ark, 

Where  love's  true  light  at  last  I've  found. 
Cheering  within  when  all  grows  dark, 

And  comfortless,  and  stormy  round  ! 


MOORE.  325 


SONG. 


Oft  in  the  stilly  night, 
Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 

Fond  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

The  smiles,  the  tears  of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken, 

The  eyes  that  shone,  now  dimmed  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 

When  I  remember  all 
The  friends  so  linked  together, 

I've  seen  around  me  fall, 
Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 

I  feel  like  one,  who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 

Whose  lights  are  fled,  whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed  ! 

Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 
Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 

Fond  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me 


28 


326  moor* 


ON  ROUSSEAU. 

*Tis  too  absurd — 'tis  weakness,  sbame. 
This  low  prostration  before  Fame — 
This  casting  down,  beneath  the  car 
Of  Idols,  whatsoe'er  they  are, 
Life's  purest,  holiest  decencies, 
To  be  careered  o'er,  as  they  please. 
No, — let  triumphant  Genius  have 
All  that  his  loftiest  wish  can  crave. 
If  he  be  worshipped,  let  it  be 

For  attributes,  his  noblest,  first, — 
Not  with  that  base  idolatry, 

Which  sanctifies  his  last  and  worst. 

I  may  be  cold — may  want  that  glow 

Of  high  romance,  which  bards  should  know 

That  holy  homage,  which  is  felt 

In  treading  where  the  great  have  dwelt — 

This  reverence,  whatso'er  it  be, 

I  fear,  I  feel  I  have  it  not, 
For  here,  at  this  still  hour,  to  me 

The  charms  of  this  delightful  spot — 
Its  calm  seclusion  from  the  throng, 

From  all  the  heart  would  fain  forget— 
This  narrow  valley,  and  the  song 

Of  its  small  murmuring  rivulet — 
The  flitting,  to  and  fro,  of  birds, 

Tranquil  and  tame  as  they  were  once 


MOORE.  32" 

In  Eden,  ere  the  startling  words 

Of  Man  disturbed  their  orisons  ! — 
Those  little,  shadowy  paths,  that  wind 
Up  the  hill  side,  with  fruit-trees  lined, 
And  lighted  only  by  the  breaks 
The  gay  wind  in  the  foliage  makes, 
Or  vistas,  here  and  there,  that  ope 

Through  weeping-willows,  like  the  snatches 
Of  far-off  scenes  of  light,  which  Hope 

Even  through  the  shade  of  sadness  catches  ! 
All  this,  which — would  I  once  but  lose 

The  memory  of  those  vulgar  ties, 
Whose  grossness  all  the  heavenliest  hues 

Of  Genius  can  no  more  disguise, 
Than  the  sun's  beam  can  do  away 
The  filth  of  fens  o'er  which  they  play, — 
This  scene,  which  would  have  filled  my  heart 

With  thoughts  of  all  that  happiest  is — 
Of  Love,  where  self  hath  only  part, 

As  echoing  back  another's  bliss — 
Of  solitude,  secure  and  sweet, 
Beneath  whose  shade  the  Virtues  meet ; 
Which,  while  it  shelters,  never  chills 

Our  sympathies  with  human  wo, 
But  keeps  them,  like  sequestered  rills, 

Purer  and  fresher  in  their  flow — 
Of  happy  days,  that  share  their  beams 

'Twixt  quiet  mirth  and  wise  employ — 
Of  tranquil  nights,  that  give,  in  dreams, 

The  moonlight  of  the  morning's  joy  ! — 
All  this  my  heart  could  .iwell  on  here, 
But  for  those  hateful  memories  near, 


328  MOORE 

Those  sordid  truths,  that  cross  the  track 

Of  each  sweet  thought,  and  drive  them  back 

Full  into  all  the  mire,  and  strife, 

And  vanities  of  that  man's  life, 

Who,  more  than  all  that  e'er  have  glowed 

With  Fancy's  flame  (and  it  was  his, 
If  ever  given  to  mortal)  showed 

What  an  imposter  Genius  is — 
How,  with  that  strong  mimetic  art, 

Which  is  its  life  and  soul,  it  takes 
All  shapes  of  thought,  all  hues  of  heart, 

Nor  feels,  itself,  one  throb  it  wakes  : — 
How  like  a  gem  its  light  may  smile 

O'er  the  dark  path,  by  mortals  trod, 
Itself  as  mean  a  worm,  the  while, 

As  crawls  along  the  sullying  sod  ; 
What  sensibility  may  fall 

From  its  false  lip,  what  plans  to  bless, 
While  home,  friends,  kindred,  country,  all, 

Lie  waste  beneath  its  selfishness. 

How,  with  the  pencil  hardly  dry 

From  colouring  up  such  scenes  of  love 
And  beauty,  as  make  young  hearts  sigh, 

And  dream,  and  think  through  heaven  they  rove, 
They,  who  can  thus  describe  and  move, 

The  very  workers  of  these  charms, 
Nor  seek,  nor  ask  a  heaven,  above 

Some  Maman's  or  Theresa's  arms  ! 

How  all,  in  short,  that  make  the  boast 
Of  their  false  tongues,  they  want  the  most ; 


MOORE  329 

And,  while  with  Freedom  on  their  lips, 

Sounding  her  timbrels,  to  set  free 
This  bright  world,  labouring  in  th'  eclipse 

Of  priestcraft  and  of  slavery, 
They  may,  themselves,  be  slaves  as  low 

As  ever  Lord  or  Patron  made, 
To  blossom  in  his  smile,  or  grow, 

Like  stunted  brushwood  in  the  shade  ! 

Out  on  the  craft, — I'd  rather  be 

One  of  those  hinds,  that  round  me  tread, 
With  just  enough  of  sense  to  see 

The  noon-day  sun  that's  o'er  my  head, 
Than  thus,  with  high-built  genius  curst, 

That  hath  no  heart  for  its  foundation, 
Be  all,  at  once,  that's  brightest — worst— 

Sublimest — meanest  in  creation  ! 


BYRON. 


THE  DYING  GLADIATOR. 


I  gee  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie  : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low— 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the  wretch 
who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away  ; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  but  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  bis  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There,  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire. 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 
All  this  rushed  with  nis  blood — Shall  he  expire 
And  unrevenged  ? — Arise  !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  ! 


BYRON.  331 


WATERLOO. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily,  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ; 
But  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell  * 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?     No  ;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined  ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet — 
But,  hark  ! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm  !  Arm  !  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sat  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amid  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  death's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  would  quell; 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  felL 


332  BYRON. 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago  — 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  nights  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise 


And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war  ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum, 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "  The  foe !  They  come, 
they  come !" 


And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron  s  gathering"  rose  ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes: — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill !     But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evans.  DonaM's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  earn  I 


BYRON.  333 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow, 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  andlow. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal  sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial  blent ! 


DRACHENFELLS. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfells 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me  ! 


334 


And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 
And  hands  which  offer  yearly  flowers, 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise  ; 
Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 
And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 
Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage  borders  ; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine, 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine. 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me ; 
Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 
I  know  that  they  must  withered  be, 
But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such ; 
For  I  have  cherished  them  as  dear, 
Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  ev'n  here, 
When  thou  beholdst  them  drooping  nigh, 
And  knowest  them  gathered  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 

And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  ; 

The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here  ; 

Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 

Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 

Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine. 


BYRON.  335 


AN  ALPINE  STORM. 

The  sky  is  changed ! — and  such  a  change !  Oh  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman!  Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  !  Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night : — Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, — 'and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

Now  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  wary  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted  ; 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted, 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rao-e 
Which  blighted  theirlife's  bloom,  and  then  departed:— 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to  wage. 


336  BYRON. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  has  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand  : 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around  :  of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  forked 
His  lightnings, — as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  worked, 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurked. 

Sky,  mountains,  rivers,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  !  ye  I 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  And,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest 


FAREWELL  TO  ENGLAND. 

"  Adiru,  adieu  !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  Night-winds  sign,  the  breakers  roar 

And  shrieks  the  wild  seamew. 
Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon    he  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  Land — Good  night ! 


BYRON. 

"  A  few  short  hours  and  He  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth  ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies. 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate  ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate.  , 


*!37 


M  And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea  : 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me  ? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands  ; 
But  long  ere  I  come  back  again, 

He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 

44  With  thee,  my  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine  ; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to, 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome  ye  dark-blue  waves  I 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  ca>es  ! 

My  native  Land — Good  Night !" 

29 


338  riYRON 


AN  ITALIAN  SUNSK'l 


The  moon  is  up  and  yet  it  is  not  night- 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains  ;   Heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colours  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  day  joins  the  past  eternity  ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest! 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  "her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ;  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Rolled  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhcetian  hill, 
As  day  and  night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaimed  her  order  : — gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  Dew-born  rose, 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glassed  within  it 
glows, 

Filled  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters  ;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse  : 
And  now  they  change  ;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains  ;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  colour  as  it  gasps  away 
T'le  last  still  loveliest,  till — 'tis  gone—and  all  is  gray 


BVRO  N 


THE  OCEAN. 


Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean — roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  witli  the  shore  ; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man>  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncofnned,  and  unknown 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war  ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee— 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  where  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  so  thou. 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play    - 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  ay  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 


340  BYRON. 


MODERN  GREECE. 


He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 

Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 

The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 

The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 

(Before  decay's  effacing  fingers 

Have  swept  the  line  where  beauty  lingers,) 

And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air, 

The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there, 

The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 

The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek, 

And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 

That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now. 

And  but  for  that  chill  changeless  brow, 

Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy 

Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 

As  if  to  him  it  would  impart 

The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon  ; 

Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone, 

Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power  ; 

So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  sealed, 

The  first,  last  look  by  death  revealed  ! 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore  ; 

'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more  ! 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Her's  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath ; 


BYRON.  34i 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 
That  line  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 
The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away  ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherished  earth 


SOLITUDE. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er,  or  rarely  been  ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold  ; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean  ; 
This  is  not  solitude  ;   'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores 
unrolled. 

But  midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  Qf  men, 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen, 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless  J 
Minions  of  splendour  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flattered,  followed,  sought,  and  sued  ; 
'Tis  to  be  alone  ;  this,  this  is  solitude  ! 

0()* 


342  BYRON 


TO  INEZ 


Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow, 

Alas  !  I  cannot  smile  again  ; 
Yet  heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain* 


And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  wo 
I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  1 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 

A  pang,  ev'n  thou  must  fail  to  soothe  ? 


It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 

Nor  low  Ambition's  honours  lost, 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state, 
And  fly  from  all  I  prized  the  most : 


It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 
From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see  ; 

To  me  no  pleasure  Beauty  brings  ; 

Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me, 


If  :°  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 
The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore  ; 

That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 


BYRON.  343 

What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee? 

To  Zones,  though  more  and  moie  remote, 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be, 
The  blight  of  life — the  demon  thought. 

STet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake ; 
Oh  !  may  they  still  of  transport  dream, 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake  ! 

Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  go, 

With  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 
And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whate'er  betides,  I've  known  the  worst. 

What  is  that  worst  1  Nay  do  not  ask — 

In  pity  from  the  search  forbear: 
Smile  on — nor  venture  to  unmask 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  hell  that's  there. 


844  BYRON. 


REMORSE. 


The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me— - 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me — 
The  remedy  I  recked  of  tortured  me  ; 
I  lean  no  more  on  super-human  aid, 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulfed  in  darkness, 
It  is  not  of  my  search. — My  mother  earth  ! 
And  thou,  fresh  breaking  day,  and  you,  ye  mountains, 
Why  are  ye  beautiful  1     I  cannot  love  ve. 
And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 
Thou  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight — thou  shin'st  not  on  my  heart. 
And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 
I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance  ;  when  a  leap, 
A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 
To  rest  forever — wherefore  do  I  pause  ? 
I  feel  the  impulse — yet  I  do  not  plunge  ; 
I  see  the  peril — yet  do  not  recede  ; 
And  my  brain  reels — and  yet  my  foot  is  firm  : 
There  is  a  power  upon  me,  which  withholds, 
And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  Jive  ; 
If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 
This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 
My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 
To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself— 
The  last  infirmity  of  evil.     Aye, 


I)  Y  RON.  345 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 

Well  may'st  thou  swoop  so  near  me — I  should  be 

Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets ;  thou  art  gone 

Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee  ;  but  thine 

Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above 

With  a  pervading  vision. — Beautiful ! 

How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world  ! 

How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 

But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 

Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 

To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mixed  essence  make 

A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 

The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride, 

Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will 

Till  our  mortality  predominates, 

And  men  are — what  they  name  not  to  themselves, 

And  trust  not  to  each  other.     Hark  !  the  note, 

The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed — 

For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 

A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 

Mixed  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd  ; 

Hy  soul  would  drink  those  echoes. — Oh,  that  I  wero 

The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 

A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 

A  bodiless  enjoyment — born  and  dying 

With  the  blest  tone  that  made  me ! 


346  BYRON 


DARKNESS. 

I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  an  a  dream. 
The  bright  sun  was  extinguished,  and  the  stars 
Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 
Rayless,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air  ; 
Morn  came,  and  went — and  came,  and  brought  no  day, 
And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 
Of  this  their  desolation  ;  and  all  hearts 
Were  chilled  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light : 
And  they  did  live  by  watchfires — and  the  thrones, 
The  palaces  of  crowned  kings — the  huts, 
The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 
Were  burnt  for  beacons  ;  cities  were  consumed, 
And  men  were  gathered  round  their  blazing  homes 
To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face  ; 
Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 
Of  the  volcanoes,  and  their  mountain  torch  : 
A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contained  ; 
Forests  were  set  on  fire — but  hour  by  hour 
They  fell  and  faded — and  the  crackling  trunks 
Extinguished  with  a  crash — and  all  was  black. 
'x  he  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 
Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 
Tlit  flashes  fell  upon  them  ;  some  lay  down 
Andviid  their  eyes  and  wept;  and  some  did  rest 
Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled  ; 
And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 
Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  looked  up 


UYRON.  347 

With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a  past  world  ;  and  then  again 

With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust,    [shrieked, 

And  gnashed  their  teeth  and  howled  :  the  wild  birds 

And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 

And  flap  their  useless  wings  ;  the  wildest  brutes 

Came  tame  and  tremulous  ;  and  vipers  crawled 

And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 

Hissing,  but  stingless — they  were  slain  for  food  : 

And  war,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more, 

Did  glut  himself  again  ; — a  meal  was  bought 

With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart 

Gorging  himself  in  gloom  :  no  love  was  left ; 

All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was  death, 

Immediate  and  inglorious  ;  and  the  pang 

Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails — men 

Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh  ; 

The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devoured, 

Even  dogs  assailed  their  masters,  all  save  one, 

And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 

The  birds  and  beasts  and  famished  men  at  bay, 

Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 

Lured  their  lank  jaws  ;  himself  sought  out  no  food, 

But  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan, 

And  a  quick  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 

Which  answered  not  with  a  caress — he  died. 

The  crowd  was  famished  by  degrees  ;  but  two 

Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive, 

And  they  were  enemies  ;  they  met  beside 

The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place, 

Where  had  been  heaped  a  mass  of  holy  things 


548  nvuoN 

For  nn  unholy  usage  ;   they  raked  up, 

And  shivering,  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton  hands 

The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 

Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 

"Which  was  a  mockery  ;  then  they  lifted  up 

Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 

Each  other's  aspects — saw,  and  shrieked,  and  died — 

Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 

Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 

Famine  had  written  Fiend.     The  world  was  void, 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 

Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless — 

A  lump  of  death — a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean,  all  stood  still, 

And  nothing  stirred  within  their  silent  depths  ; 

Ships  sailorless,  lay  rotting  on  the  sea, 

And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal  ;  as  they  dropped 

They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge — 

The  waves  were  dead  ;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave, 

The  moon  their  mistress  had  expired  before; 

The  winds  were  withered  in  the  stagnant  air, 

And  the  clouds  perished  ;  Darkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them — She  was  the  universe. 


BYRON.  349 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold  ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  hlue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen: 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strewn. 

For  the  angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  on  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed  ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew  still! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride: 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  laid  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  ! 
30 


350  BYRON. 


THE  EAST. 


Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 

Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime, 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 

Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime  ? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine  ; 
Where  t'he  light  wings  ofZephyr,oppressed  with  perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Ciul  in  her  bloom  ; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute  ; 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  colour  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  die  ; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  1 
'Tis  the  clime  of  the  East ;  'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done? 
Oh  !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers-'  farewell, 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which 
they  tell. 


BYRON 


LYRIC  VERSUS 


The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece  ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung' 
Rternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Sciau  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse  ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  'Islands  of  the  Blest.' 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; " 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamt  that  Greece  mig.it  still  be  free  ; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave, 

A  king  sate  on  tne  rocicy  brow, 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis  ; 

And  ships  by  thousands  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations  ;  all  were  his  ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  1 


352  BYRON. 


And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?  On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  1 


'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing  suffuse  my  face  ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  1 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 


Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ] — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae  ! 


What,  silent  still  1  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  !  no  ; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head,— 
But  one  arise — we  come,  we  come  !" 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 


BYRON.  353 

[n  vain — in  vain  :  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  ! 
Hark !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  bacchanal ! 


You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ! 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  you  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these* 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  : 

He  served — but  served  Polycratea — 
A  tyrant :  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 


The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend  • 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh  !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 
30* 


354  BYRON. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore. 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 


Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells : 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells : 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneatli  the  shade 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 


Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep- 
Where  nothing  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  >ur  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die  : 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  ! 


KKATS 


FROM  "  ISABEL 


Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel ! 

Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  love's  eye  ! 
They  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion  dwell 

Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some  malady  ; 
They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how  well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same  roof  sleep 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer, 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still ; 

He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir, 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill ; 

And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill ; 

Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name, 

She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  same. 


356  KEATS. 

He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch, 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes  ; 

And  from  her  chamber-window  he  would  catch 
Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies  ; 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch, 

Because  her  face  was  turned  to  the  same  skies ; 

And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night  outwear, 

To  hear  her  morning  step  upon  the  stair. 


With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt, 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandize, 

And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories, 

And  many  once  proud-quivered  loins  did  melt 
In  blood  from  stinging-whip — with  hollow  eyes ; 

Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 

To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  flood. 

For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath, 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark  ; 

For  them  his  ears  gushed  blood  ;  for  them  in  death 
The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  piteous  bark 

Lay  full  of  darts  :  for  them  alone  did  seethe 
A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark : 

Half-ignorant,  they  turned  an  easy  wheel, 

That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel 


KEATS.  357 

In  the  mid-days  of  Autumn,  on  their  eves 

The  hreath  of  Winter  comes  from  far  away, 
And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 

Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 
Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves, 

To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 
From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 

She  asked  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 
Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 

Could  keep  him  off  so  long?     They  spake  a  tale 
Tim"!  after  time,  to  quiet  her.     Their  crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Hinnom's  vale ; 
And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groaned  aloud, 

To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 


TO  AUTUMN. 

Season  of  mist  and  mellow  fruitiiilness, 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run  ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage-trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core  ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  ttiey  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 
For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their  clammy  cells. 


358  KEATS. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  in  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  he  ok 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers: 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 

Or  by  a  cider  press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?  Aye,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too,— 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 

Hedge- crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft ; 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies 


K  IT  A  T  S  359 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  us  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and,  Lethe- wards  had  sunk  : 

*Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage  !  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth  ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  : 


360  K  E  A  T  8  . 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan, 

Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre  thin,  and  dies  ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
WWre  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow 

Away  !  away  1  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards: 

Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  fays  ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  i>t  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 

The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 

Fast  fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves  ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 


KEATS.  361 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  tliy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  would'st  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 

Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 

Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn, 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 

Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream. 
Up  the  hill  side  ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music : — Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ! 
31 


362  KEATS, 


ROBIN  HOOD. 


No  !  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray. 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  for  many  years  ; 
Many  times  have  winter's  shears. 
Frozen  North  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests,  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  lease*. 
No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more  ; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill , 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 
Where  lone  echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 
On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon, 
Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you. 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you, 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold  ; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 


KEATS.  363 

Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent ; 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din  ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn  ; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "  grene  shaw  ;" 
All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  turfed  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze  : 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fallen  beneath  his  dockyard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas  ; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — Strange  !  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money ! 

So  it  is  :  yet  let  us  sing, 
Honour  to  the  old  bow  string ! 
Honour  to  the  bugle  horn  ! 
Honour  to  the  woods  unshorn  ! 
Honour  to  the  Lincoln  green  ' 
Honour  to  the  archer  keen  ! 
Honour  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood  ! 
Honour  to  maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood-clan  ! 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  bv 
Let  ur»  two  a  burden  try. 


364  KEAT8. 


FROM  "HYPERION." 


Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 
Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 
Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 
Sat  gray-haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 
Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair  ; 
Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 
Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 
Not  so  much  of  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feathered  grass, 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 
A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened  more 
By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 
Spreading  a  shade :  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 
Pressed  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  zips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went, 
No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  strayed, 
And  slept  there  since.      Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptered  ;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed  ; 
While  his  bowed  head  seemed  listening  to  the  earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seemed  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place , 
But  there  came  one.  who  with  a  kindred  hand 


KEATS.  365 

Touched  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 
She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  infant  world  ; 
By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 
Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height :  she  would  have  ta'en 
Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck  ; 
Or  with  a  finger  stayed  Ixiou's  wheel. 
Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian  sphinx. 
Pedestaled  haply  in  a  palace  court, 
When  sages  looked  to  Egypt  for  their  lore 
But  oh  !  how  unlike  marble  was  that  face : 
How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  beauty's  self. 
There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard. 
As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 
As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear, 
Was  with  its  stored  thunder  labouring  up. 
One  hand  she  pressed  upon  that  aching  spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there, 
Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  : 
The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ  tone  : 
Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongue 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents ;  O  how  frail 
To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods  ! 
"  Saturn,  look  up  ! — though  wherefore,  poor  old  King? 
u  I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no  not  one : 
"  I  cannot  say,  '  O  wherefore  sleepest  thou  V 
31» 


366  KEATS. 

••  For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  earth 
"  Knows  thee  not,  thus  afflicted,  for  a  God  ; 
"  And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
"  Has  from  thy  sceptre  passed  ;  and  all  the  air 
"  Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty* 
*'  Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  command, 
"  Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ; 
"  And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands 
"  Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain. 
*  O  aching  time  !  O  moments  big  as  years  ! 
•*  All  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth, 
"  And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
11  That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
"  Saturn,  sleep  on  : — O  thoughtless,  why  did  I 
"  Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  1 
"  Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 
**  Saturn,  sleep  on  !  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep." 

As  when,  upon  a  tranced  summer-night, 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods, 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave  ; 
So  came  these  words  and  went ;  the  while  in  tears 
She  touched  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the  ground. 


KEATS.  367 

It  was  Hyperion  :—  a  granite  peak 

His  bright  feet  touched,  and  there  he  staid  to  view 

The  misery  his  brilliance  had  betrayed 

To  the  most  hateful  seeing  of  itself. 

Golden  his  hair  of  short  Numidian  curl, 

Regal  his  shape  majestic,  a  vast  shade 

In  midst  of  his  own  brightness,  like  the  bulk 

Of  Memnon's  image  at  the  set  of  sun 

To  one  who  travels  from  the  dusking  East : 

Sighs,  too,  as  mournful  as  that  Memnon's  harp 

He  uttered,  while  his  hands  contemplative 

He  pressed  together,  and  in  silence  stood. 


MILLMAN. 


FROM  "THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM." 


Oh  Thou  !  thou  who  canst  melt  the  heart  ot  stone, 
And  make  the  desert  of  the  cruel  breast 
A  paradise  of  soft  and  gentle  thoughts  ! 
Ah  !  will  it  ever  be,  that  thou  wilt  visit 
The  darkness  of  my  father's  soul  ?     Thou  knowest 
In  what  strong  bondage  zeal  and  ancient  faith, 
Passion  and  stubborn  Custom,  and  fierce  Pride, 
Hold  the  heart  of  man.     Thou  knowest,  Merciful ' 
That  knowest  all  things,  and  dost  ever  turn 
Thine  eye  of  pity  on  our  guilty  nature  : 


MXLLMAN.  369 

For  thou  wert  born  of  woman  !  thou  didst  come 
Oh  Holiest !  to  this  world  of  sin  and  gloom, 
Not  in  thy  dread  omnipotent  array ; 
And  not  by  thunders  strewed 
Was  thy  tempestuous  road  ; 
Nor  indignation  burnt  before  thee  on  thy  way. 
BuUthee,  a  soft  and  naked  child, 

Thy  mother  undefiled. 
In  the  rude  manger  laid  to  rest 
From  off  her  virgin  breast. 

The  heavens  were  not  commanded  to  prepare 
A  gorgeous  canopy  of  golden  air  ; 
Nor  stooped  their  lamps  th'  enthroned  fires  on  high : 
A  single  silent  star 
Came  wandering  from  afar, 
Gliding  unchecked  and  calm  along  the  liquid  sky  ; 
The  Eastern  sages  leading  on 

As  at  a  kingly  throne, 
To  lay  their  gold  and  odours  sweet 
Before  thy  infant  feet. 

The  earth  and  ocean  were  not  hushed  to  hear 
Bright  harmony  from  every  starry  sphere  ; 
Nor  at  thy  presence  brake  the  voice  of  song 
From  all  the  cherub  choirs, 
And  seraph's  burning  lyres  [along. 

Poured  through  the  host  of  heaven  the  charmed  clouds 
One  angel  troop  the  strain  began, 

Of  aH  the  race  of  man 
By  simple  shepherds  heard  alone, 
That  soft  Hosanna's  tone. 


370  M  I  L  L  M  A  N  . 

And  when  tnou  didst  depart,  no  car  of  flame 
To  bear  thee  hence  in  lambent  radiance  came  ; 
Nor  visible  Angels  mourned  with  drooping  plumes : 
Nor  didst  thou  mount  on  high 
From  fatal  Calvary  [tombs 

With  all  thine  own  redeemed  outbursting  from  theii 
For  thou  didst  bear  away  from  earth 

But  one  of  human  birth, 
The  dying  felon  by  thy  side,  to  be 
In  paradise  with  thee. 

Nor  o'er  thy  cross  the  clouds  of  vengeance  brake  j 
A  little  while  the  conscious  earth  did  shake 
At  that  foul  deed  by  her  fierce  children  done  ; 
A  few  dim  hours  of  day 
The  world  in  darkness  lay  ; 
Tb«Mi  basked  in  bright  repose  beneath  the  cloudless  sun. 
While  thou  didst  sleep  beneath  the  tomb, 

Consenting  to  thy  doom  ; 
Ere  yet  the  white  robed  Angel  shone 
Upon  the  sealed  stone. 

And  when  thou  didst  arise,  thou  didst  not  stand 
With  devastation  in  thy  red  right  hand, 
Plaguing  the  guilty  city's  murtherous  crew  ; 
But  thou  didst  haste  to  meet 
Thy  mother's  coming  feet, 
And  bear  the  words  of  peace  unto  the  faithful  few. 
Then  calmly,  slowly  didst  thou  rise 

Into  thy  native  skies ; 
Thy  human  form  dissolved  on  high 
In  its  own  radiancy. 


MILL  MAN.  37J 


FROM  "THE  MARTYk  „f  ANTIOCH." 
PABICS. 

Cease,  Calanthias,  cease ; 
And  thou,  Charinus.     Oh,  my  brethren,  God 
Will  summon  those  whom  he  hath  chosen,  to  ait 
In  garments  dyed  with  their  own  blood  around 
The  Lamb  in  Heaven  ;  but  it  becomes  not  man 
To  affect  with  haughty  and  aspiring  violence 
The  loftiest  thrones,  ambitious  for  his  own, 
And  not  his  Master's  glory.     Every  star 
Is  not  a  sun,  nor  every  Christian  soul 
Wrapt  to  a  seraph.     But  for  thee,  Cdanthias, 
Thou  know'st  not  whether  even  this  night  aha'. 
The  impatient  vengeance  of  the  Lord,  or  rest 
Myriads  of  human  years.     Fo«  what  are  they, 
What  are  our  ages,  but  a  few  brief  waves 
From  the  vast  ocean  of  eternity, 
That  break  upon  the  shore  of  this  our  world, 
And  so  ebb  back  into  the  immense  profound, 
Which  He  on  high,  even  at  one  instant,  sweeps 
With  his  omniscient  sight. 

Beloved  brethren, 
And  ye,  our  sisters,  hold  we  all  prepared, 
Lik^  him  beside  whose  hallowed  grave  wc  s»md, 
To  give  the  .ast  and  awful  testimony 
To  Christ  our  Lord.     Yet  *-smpt  net  to  ou?  m««rder 
The  yet  vmbioody  hs>nds  of  pien. 

They  come  . 
Pale  lights  *re  3leaMin<af  though  the  dusky  night, 


372  M  r  1. 1.  m  a  N . 

And  hurrying  feet  are  trampling  to  and  fro. 
Disperse — disperse,  my  brethren,  to  your  homes  !— 
Sweet  Margarita,  in  the  Hermitage 
By  clear  Orontes,  where  so  oft  we've  met, 
Thou'lt  tind  me  still.     God's  hlessing  wait  on  all! 
Farewell!  we  meet,  if  not  on  earth,  in  heaven. 


CALLIAS. 

And  yet  she  stands  unblasted  !     In  thy  mercy 
Thou  dost  remember  all  my  faithful  vows, 
Hyperion  !  and  suspend  the  fiery  shaft 
That  quivers  on  tjjy  string.     Ah,  not  on  her, 
This  innocent,  wreck  thy  fury  !     I  will  search, 
And  thou  wilt  lend  me  light,  although  they  shroud 
In  deepest  Orcus.     I  will  pluck  them  forth, 
And  set  them  up  a  mark  for  all  thy  wrath  ; 
Those  that  beguiled  to  this  unholy  madness 
My  pure  and  blameless  child.     Shine  forth,  shine  forth 
Apollo,  and  we'll  have  our  full  revenge. 


MAGARITA. 

'Tis  over  now — and  oh,  I  bless  thee,  Lord, 
For  making  me  thus  desolate  below  ; 
For  severing  one  by  one  the  ties  that  bind  me 
To  this  cold  world,  for  whither  can  earth's  outcasts 
Fly  but  to  heaven  ? 

Yet  is  no  way  but  this, 
None  but  to  steep  my  father's  lingering  dfiys 


MILLMAN.  373 

In  bitterness?     Thou  knowest,  gracious  Lord 
Of  mercy,  how  he  loves  me,  how  he  loved  me 
From  the  first  moment  that  my  eyes  were  opened 
Upon  the  light  of  day  and  him.     At  least, 
If  thou  must  smite  him,  smite  him  in  thy  mercy, 
He  loves  me  as  the  life-blood  of  his  heart, 
His  love  surpasses  every  love  but  thine  : 

For  thou  didst  die  for  me,  oh  Son  of  God  ! 

By  thee  the  throbbing  flesh  of  man  was  worn  ; 
Thy  naked  feet  the  thorn  of  sorrow  trod  ; 

And  tempests  beat  thy  houseless  head  forlorn 
Thou,  that  wert  wont  to  stand 
Alone,  on  God's  right  hand,  • 
Before  the  ages  were,  the  Eternal,  eldest  born. 

Thy  birthright  in  the  world  was  pain  and  grief, 

Thy  love's  return  ingratitude  and  hate  ; 
The  limbs  thou  healed'st  brought  thee  no  relief, 
The  eyes  thou  opened'st  calmly  viewed  thy  fate  : 
Thou,  that  wert  wont  to  dwell 
In  peace,  tongue  cannot  tell, 
Nor  heart  conceive  the  bliss  of  thy  celestial  state. 

They  dragged  thee  to  the  Roman's  solemn  Hall, 

Where  the  proud  Judge  in  purple  splendour  sate  ; 
Thou  stood'st  a  meek  and  patient  criminal, 
Thy  doom  of  death  from  human  lips  to  wait ; 
Whose  throne  shall  be  the  world 
In  final  ruin  hurled, 
With  all  mankind  to  hear  their  everlasting  fate. 
32 


574  m  i  i.i.m  \  n  . 

Thou  wert  alone  in  that  fierce  multitude, 

When  "  Crucify  him  !"  yelled  the  general  shout; 
No  hand  to  guard  thee  mid  those  insults  rude, 
Nor  lip  to  hless  in  all  that  frantie  rout; 
Whose  lightest  whispered  word 
The  Seraphim  had  heard, 
And  adamantine  arms  from  all  the  heavens  broke  out- 

They  bound  thy  temples  with  the  twisted  thorn, 

Thy  bruised  feet  went  languid  on  with  pain  ; 
The  blood,  from  all  thy  flesh  with  scourges  torn, 
Deepened  thy  robe  of  mockery's  crimson  grain; 
Whose  native  vesture  bright 
Was  the  unapproached  light, 
The  sandal  of  whose  foot  the  rapid  hurricane. 

They  smote  thy  cheek  with  many  a  ruthless  palm, 

With  the  cold  spear  thy  shuddering  side  they  pierced  ; 
The  draught  of  bitterest  gall  was  all  the  balm 

They  gave,  t'enhance  thy  unslaked,  burning  thirst: 
Thou,  at  whose  words  of  peace 
Did  pain  and  anguish  cease, 
And  the  long  buried  dead  their  bonds  of  slumber  burst. 

Low  bowed  thy  head  convulsed,  and,  drooped  in  death, 

Thy  voice  sent  forth  a  sad  and  wailing  cry; 
Slow  struggled  from  thy  breast  the  parting  breath, 
And  every  limb  was  wrung  with  agony. 
That  head,  whose  veilless  blaze 
Filled  angels  with  amaze, 
When  at  that  voice  sprang  forth  the  rolling  suns  or  high. 


M  1  I.  L  M  A  N  375 

And  thou  wert  laid  within  the  narrow  tomb, 

Thy  clay-cold  limbs  with  shrouding  grave-clothea 

[bound 
The  sealed  stone  confirmed  thy  mortal  doom, 

Lone  watchmen  walked  thy  desert  burial  ground, 
Whom  heaven  could  not  contain, 
Nor  th'  ^immeasurable  plain 
Of  vast  Infinity  inclose  or  circle  round. 

For  us,  for  us,  thou  didst  endure  the  pain, 

And  thy  meek  spirit  bowed  itself  to  shame, 
To  wash  our  souls  from  sin's  infecting  stain, 
T'  avert  the  Father's  wrathful  vengeance  flame: 
Thou,  that  could'st  nothing  win 
By  saving  worlds  from  sin, 
Nor  augp*  ??  glory  add  to  thv  all-glorious  name. 


376  M1LLMAN 


FROM  "  BELSHAZZAR." 


HYMN. 


Oh,  thou  that  wilt  not  break  the  bruised  reed, 
Nor  heap  fresh  ashes  on  the  mourner's  brow, 

Nor  rend  anew  the  wounds  that  inly  bleed, 
The  only  balm  of  our  afflictions  thou, 

Teach  us  to  bear  thy  chastening  wrath,  oh  God  I 

To  kiss  with  quivering  lips — still  humbly  kiss  thy  rod! 


We  bless  thee,  Lord,  though  far  from  Judah's  land  ; 

Though  our  worn  limbs  are  black  with  stripes  and 

[chains ; 
Though  for  stern  foes  we  till  the  burning  sand ; 

And  reap,  for  others' joy,  the  summer  plains  ; 
We  bless  thee,  Lord,  for  thou  art  gracious  still, 
Even  though  this  last  black  drop  o'erflow  our  cup  of  ill  I 


We  bless  thee  for  our  lost,  our  beauteous  child  ; 

The  tears,  less  bitter,  she  hath  made  us  weep; 
The  weary  hours  her  graceful  sports  have  guiled, 

And  the  dull  cares  her  voice  hath  sung  to  sleep  ! 
She  was  the  dove  of  hope  to  our  lorn  ark  ; 
The  only  star  that  miide  the  stranger's  sky  less  dark! 


art   ii  v.  a  v.  3T* 

Our  dove  is  fallen  into  the  spoiler's  net; 

Rude  hands  divide  her  plumes  so  chastely  white  ; 
To  the  bereaved  their  one  soft  star  is  set, 

And  all  above  is  sullen,  cheerless  night ! 
But  still  we  thank  thee  for  our  transient  bliss : 
Ye*,  Lord,  to  scourge  our  sins  remained  no  way  but  thist 


As  when  our  Father  to  mount  Moriah  led 
The  blessing's  heir,  his  age's  hope  and  joy, 

Pleased,  as  he  roamed  along  with  dancing  tread, 
Chid  his  slow  sire,  the  fond,  officious  boy, 

And  laugheatin  sport  to  see  the  yellow  fire 

Climb  up  the  turf-built  shrine,  his  destined  funeral  pyre. 


Even  thus  our  joyous  child  went  lightly  on  ; 

Bashfully  sportive,  timourously  gay, 
Her  white  foot  bounded  from  the  pavement  stone 

Like  some  light  bird  from  off*  the  quivering  spray  ; 
And  back  she  glanced,  and  smiled,  in  blameless  glee ; 
The  cars,  and  helms,  and  spears,  and  mystic  dance  to  see 


By  thee,  O  Lord,  the  gracious  voice  was  sent 
That  bade  the  Sire  his  murtherous  task  forego  : 

When  to  his  home  the  child  of  Abraham  went 
His  mother's  tears  had  scarce  begun  to  flow. 

Alas  !  and  lurks  there  in  the  thicket's  shade, 

The  victim  to  replace  our  lost  devoted  maid  t 
32* 


378  JIILLMAN. 

Lord,  ever,  through  thee  to  hope  were  now  too  bold  ; 

Yet  'twere  to  doubt  thy  mercy  to  despair. 
'Tis  anguish  yet,  'tis  comfort,  faint  and  cold, 

To  think  how  sad  we  are,  how  blest  we  were  ! 
To  speak  of  her  is  wretchedness,  and  yet 
It  were  a  grief  more  deep  and  bitterer  to  forget ! 

Oh  Lord  our  God  !  why  was  she  e'er  our  own  1 
Why  is  she  not  our  own — our  treasure  still  ? 

We  could  have  rnssed  our  heavy  years  alone. 
Alas  !  is  this  to  bow  us  to  thy  will  ? 

Ah,  even  our  humblest  prayers  we  make  repine, 

Nor,  prostrate  thus  on  earth,  our  hearts  to  thee  resign. 

Forgive,  forgive — even  should  our  full  hearts  break, 
The  broken  heart  thou  will  not,  Lord,  despise : 

Ah  !  thou  art  still  too  gracious  to  forsake, 
Though  thy  strong  hand  heavily  chastise. 

Hear  all  our  prayers,  hear  not  our  murmurs,  Lord  ; 

And,  though  our  lips  rebel,  still  make  thy  self  adored. 


MILL  MAN.  379 


FROM  "BELSHAZZAB  " 


God  of  the  Thunder!  from  whose  cloudy  seat 

The  fiery  winds  of  Desolation  How  ; 
Father  of  vengeance  !  that  with  purple  feet, 

Like  a  full  wine-press,  tread'st  the  world  below : 
The  embattled  armies  wait  thy  sign  to  slay, 
Nor  springs  the  beast  of  havoc  on  his  prey, 
Nor  withering  Famine  walks  his  blasted  way, 
Till  thou  the  guilty  land  hast  sealed  for  wo. 

God  of  the  Rainbow  !  at  whose  gracious  sign 

The  billows  of  the  proud  their  rage  suppress  : 
Father  of  Mercies  !  at  one  word  of  thine 

An  Eden  blooms  in  the  waste  wilderness  ! 
And  fountains  sparkle  in  the  arid  sands, 
And  timbrels  ring  in  maidens1  glancing  hands, 
And  marble  cities  crown  the  laughing  lands, 
And  pillared  temples  rise  thy  name  to  bless. 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  thunders  broke,  O  Lord, 
The  chariots  rattled  o'er  her  sunken  gate, 

Her  sons  were  wasted  by  the  Assyrian  sword, 
Ivven  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  fallen  state  ; 

And  heaps  her  ivory  palaces  became. 

Her  princes  wore  the  captive  garb  of  shame, 

Her  temple  sank  amid  the  smouldering  flame, 
For  thou  didst  ride  the  tempest  cloud  of  fate. 


=eU 


380  M  I  L  L  M  A  N  . 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  rainbow,  Lord,  shall  beam, 

And  the  sad  City  lift  her  crownless  head  ; 
And  songs  shall  wake,  and  dancing  footsteps  gleam, 

Where  broods  o'er  fallen  streets  the  silence  of  the  dead 
The  sun  shall  shine  on  Salem's  gilded  towers, 
On  Carmel's  side  our  maidens  cull  the  flowers, 
To  deck,  at  blushing  eve,  their  bridal  bowers, 
And  angel  feet  the  glittering  Sion  tread. 

Thy  vengeance  gave  us  to  the  stranger's  hand, 

And  Abraham's  children  were  led  forth  for  slaves  ; 
With  fettered  steps  we  left  our  pleasant  land, 

Envying  our  fathers  in  their  peaceful  graves. 
The  stranger's  bread  with  bitter  tears  we  steep, 
And  when  our  weary  eyes  should  sink  to  sleep, 
'Neath  the  mute  midnight  we  steal  forth  to  weep, 
Where  the  pale  willows  shade  Euphrates'  waves. 

The  born  in  sorrow  shall  bring  forth  in  joy  ; 

Thy  mercy,  Lord,  shall  lead  thy  children  home  ; 
He  that  went  forth  a  tender  yearling  boy, 

Yet,  ere  he  die,  to  Salem's  streets  shall  come. 
And  Canaan's  vines  for  us  their  fruit  shall  bear, 
And  Hermon's  bees  their  honied  stores  prepare, 
And  we  shall  kneel  again  in  thankful  prayer, 

Where,  o'er  the  cherub-seated  God,  full  blazed 
th'  irradiate  dome. 


WOLFE. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOOR*. 


Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


382  WOLFE. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  : 
But  we  stedfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head. 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory  ! 


WOLFE.  383 


STANZAS. 


If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee  ; 
But  I  forgot  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be  : 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  past, 

That  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more  i 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  'twill  smile  again  ; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook, 

That  I  must  look  in  vain  ! 
But  when  I  speak,  thou  dost  not  say, 

What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid  ; 
And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary  !  thou  art  dead  ! 

If  thou  wouldst  stay,  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene — 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been  ! 
While  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corse  I  have; 

Tnou  seemest  still  mine  own  ; 
And  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave- 

And  I  am  now  alone  ! 


384  wolpb. 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me  ; 
And  I,  perhaps,  may  sooth  this  heart, 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  : 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore  * 


MRS.  HEMANS. 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH 


Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  North- wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  ! 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer ; 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth  ! 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine ; 

There  comes  a  day  for  griefs  o'erwhelming  powei\ 
A  time  for  softer  tears — but  all  are  thine  ! 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee ! — but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey ! 

33 


386  MRS.    HEMANS. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  North-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death ! 


We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  Autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain  ; 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  1 


Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale  ? 
They  have  one  season — all  are  ours  to  die  ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air  ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth — and  thou  art  there; 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest, 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  North-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  ! 


MRS.    HEMANS.  H87 


MOZART'S  REQUIEM 


A  Requiem  ! — and  for  whom  1 

For  beauty  in  its  bloom  1 
For  valour  fallen — a  broken  rose  or  sword  t 

A  dirge  for  king  or  chief, 

With  pomp  of  stately  grief, 
Banner,  and  torch,  and  waving  plume  deplored  t 


Not  so,  it  is  not  so  ! 

The  warning  voice  I  know, 
From  other  worlds  a  strange  mysterious  tone ; 

A  solemn  funeral  air, 

It  called  me  to  prepare, 
And  my  heart  answered  secretly — my  own  ! 


One  more  then,  one  more  strain, 

In  links  of  joy  and  pain 
Mighty  the  troubled  spirit  to  enthral ! 

And  let  me  breathe  my  dower 

Of  passion  and  of  power 
Full  into  that  deep  lav — the  last  of  all ! 


MRS.    HEMANS. 

The  last !— and  I  must  go 

From  this  bright  world  belo    , 
This  realm  of  sunshine,  ringing    'Uh  sweet  ecnsd* 

Must  leave  its  festal  skies, 

With  all  their  melodies, 
That  ever  in  my  breast  glad  eclofs  found. 


Yet  have  I  known  it  long : 

Too  restless  and  too  strong 
Within  this  clay  hath  been  th'  o'ermastering  f  me  i 

Swift  thoughts,  that  came  and  went, 

Like  torrents  o'er  me  s',nt, 
Have  shaken,  as  a  reed,  my  thrilling  frame. 


Like  perfumes  on  the  wind, 

Which  none  may  stay  or  bind, 
The  beautiful  come  floating  through  my  soul ; 

I  strive  with  yearnings  vain, 

The  spirit  to  detain 
Of  the  deep  harmonies  that  past  me  roll ! 


Therefore  disturbing  dreams 

Trouble  the  secret  streams 
And  founts  of  music  that  o'erflow  my  breast ; 

Something  far  more  divine 

Than  may  on  earth  be  mine, 
Haunts  my  worn  heart,  and  will  not  let  me  rest 


MRS.    HEMANS  389 

Shall  I  then  fear  the  tone 

That  breathes  from  worlds  unknown  T— 
Surely  these  feverish  aspirations  there 

Shall  grasp  their  full  desire, 

And  this  unsettled  fire, 
Burn  calmly,  brightly,  in  immortal  air 


One  more  then,  one  more  strain, 

To  earthly  joy  and  pain 
A  rich,  and  deep,  and  passionate  farewell ! 

I  pour  each  fervent  thought 

With  fear,  hope,  trembling,  fraught, 
Into  the  notes  that  o'er  my  dust  shall  swell. 


390  MRS.    HEM  AN  8. 


THE  PALM  TREB. 


It  waved  not  through  an  Eastern  sky. 
Beside  a  fount  of  Araby ; 
It  was  not  fanned  by  southern  breeze 
In  some  green  isle  of  Indian  seas, 
Nor  did  its  graceful  shadow  sleep 
O'er  stream  of  Afric,  lone  and  deep 


But  fair  the  exiled  Palm-tree  grew 
Midst  foliage  of  no  kindred  hue  ; 
Thro'  the  laburnum's  dropping  gold 
Rose  the  light  shaft  of  orient  mould, 
And  Europe's  violets,  faintly  sweet, 
Purpled  the  moss-beds  at  its  feet 


Strange  looked  it  there ! — the  willow  streamed 
Where  silvery  waters  near  it  gleamed ; 
The  lime-bough  lured  the  honey  bee 
To  murmur  by  the  desert's  tree, 
And  showers  of  snowy  roses  made 
A  lustre  in  its  fan-like  shade. 


MRS.    HEMANS.  391 

There  came  an  eve  of  festal  hours — 
Rich  music  filled  that  garden's  bowers : 
Lamps,  that  from  flowering  branches  hung, 
On  sparks  of  dew  soft  colours  flung, 
And  bright  forms  glanced — a  fairy  show — 
Under  the  blossoms  to  and  fro. 


But  one,  a  lone  one,  midst  the  throng, 
Seemed  reckless  all  of  dance  or  song : 
He  was  a  youth  of  dusky  mein, 
Whereon  the  Indian  sun  had  been, 
Of  crested  brow,  and  long  black  hair — 
A  stranger,  like  the  Palm-tree  there. 


And  slowly,  sadly,  moved  his  plumes, 
Glittering  athwart  the  leafy  glooms : 
He  passed  the  pale  green  olives  by, 
Nor  won  the  chesnut  flowers  his  eye ; 
But  when  to  that  sole  Palm  he  came, 
Then  shot  a  rapture  through  his  frame  I 


To  him,  to  him,  its  rustling  spoke, 
The  silence  of  his  soul  it  broke  ! 
It  whispered  of  its  own  bright  isle, 
That  lit  the  ocean  with  a  smile  ; 
Aye,  to  his  ear  that  native  tone 
Had  something  of  the  sea-waves  moan 


392  MRS.    HEMANS 

His  mother's  cabin  home,  that  lay 
Where  feathery  cocoas  fringed  the  bay ; 
The  dashing  of  his  brethren's  oar, 
The  conch-note  heard  along  the  shore  ; 
All  thro'  his  wakening  bosom  swept : 
He  clasped  his  country's  Tree  and  wept ! 


Oh  !  scorn  him  not ! — the  strength,  whereby 

The  patriot  girds  himself  to  die, 

Th'  unconquerable  power,  which  fills 

The  freeman  battling  on  his  hills, 

These  have  one  fountain  deep  and  clear— 

The  same  whence  gushed  that  child-like  tear ! 


MRS.    HEM  ANS.  3Q3 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BROTHERS. 

The  voices  of  two  forest  boys, 

In  years  when  hearts  entwine, 
Had  filled  with  childhood's  merry  noise 

A  valley  of  the  Rhine. 
To  rock  and  stream  that  sound  was  known. 
Gladsome  as  hunter's  bugle  tone. 

The  sunny  laughter  of  their  eyes 
There  had  each  vineyard  seen  ; 

Up  every  cliff  whence  eagles  rise, 
Their  bounding  step  had  been  ; 

Ay  !  their  bright  youth  a  glory  threw 

O'er  the  wild  place  wherein  they  grew 

But  this,  as  day-spring's  flush,  was  brief 

As  early  bloom  or  dew  ; — 
Alas  !  'tis  but  the  withered  leaf 

That  wears  the  enduring  hue! 
Those  rocks  along  the  Rhine's  fair  shore, 
Might  girdle  in  their  world  no  more. 

For  now  on  manhood's  verge  they  stood, 

And  heard  life's  thrilling  call, 
As  if  a  silver  clarion  woo'd 

To  some  high  festival ; 
And  parted  as  young  brothers  part, 
With  love  in  each  unsullied  heart 


394  MRS.    IIEMAN8. 

They  parted — soon  the  paths  divide 
Wherein  our  steps  were  one, 

Like  river-branches,  far  and  wide 
Dissevering  as  they  run, 

And  making  strangers  in  their  course 

Of  waves  that  had  the  same  bright  source. 

Met  they  no  more  ? — once  more  they  met, 
Those  kindred  hearts  and  true  ! 

'Twas  on  a  field  of  death,  whero  yet 
The  battle-thunders  flew, 

Though  the  fierce  day  was  well-nigh  past. 

And  the  red  sunset  smiled  its  last 

But  as  the  combat  closed,  they  found 
For  tender  thoughts  a  space, 

And  ev'n  upon  that  bloody  ground 
Room  for  one  brief  embrace, 

And  pour  d  forth  on  each  other's  neok 

Such  tears  as  warriors  need  not  check. 

The  mists  o'er  boyhood's  memory  spreat 

All  melted  with  those  tears 
The  faces  of  the  holy  dead 

Rose  as  in  vauish'd  years  : 
The  Rhine,  the  Rhine,  the  ever  blessed 
Lifted  its  voice  in  each  full  breast ! 

Oh  I  was  it  then  a  time  to  die  t 
It  was  ! — that  not  in  vain 


MRS       HEMANS.  395 

The  soul  of  childhood's  purity 
And  peace  might  turn  again. 
A  ball  swept  forth — 'twas  guided  well- 
Heart  unto  heart  those  brothers  fell. 

Happy,  yes,  happy  thus  they  go  ! 

Bearing  from  earth  away 
Affections,  gifted  ne'er  to  know 

A  shadow — a  decay, 
A  passing  touch  of  change  or  chill, 
A  breath  of  aught  whose  breath  can  kill. 

And  they,  between  whose  sever'd  souls, 

Once  in  close  union  tied, 
A  gulf  is  set,  a  current  rolls 

For  ever  to  divide, — 
Well  may  they  envy  such  a  lot, 
Whose  hearts  yearn  on — but  mingle  not. 


rows. 


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